


Sands and Stars

by Neyasochi



Series: Bond and Blade [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, First Meetings, Pre-Relationship, Prince Shiro (Voltron), Thief Keith (Voltron), Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 12:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15908175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyasochi/pseuds/Neyasochi
Summary: Keith’s no stranger to shit going sideways, but mistakenly assaulting and robbing acrown princeis definitely the peak misfortune of his considerable criminal career. Suddenly in the custody of the royal guard and slated for a swift and unceremonious execution, he figures his short life is over. Imminently.But then Prince Takashi offers him an alternative.





	Sands and Stars

**Author's Note:**

> A prequel story for As a Star, Forever Out of Reach. They can be read in either order/independently. No beta so sorry for typos!  
> Looooosely based on Dragon Age. Real loose.

Beneath my feet,

Grains of sand beyond counting.

Above my head, a sea of stars.

Alone, they are small:

A faint and flickering light in the darkness,

A lost and fallen fragment of earth.

Alone, they make the emptiness real.

Together, they are the bones of the world.

_The Qun, The Body Canto_

☆...☆...☆...☆...☆

 

Balmy summer days in the Arusian capital mean bustling streets, and with the press of bodies and clamor of merchants come _thieves_.

Keith knows it well enough. When he’d first arrived in White Spire from the barren countryside of the Ariz Wastes, he’d fallen victim to a pack of pickpockets no older than himself. Alone and friendless, his only consolation had come in the form of unsolicited wisdom from a passing witness— _mind your gold and your life, for there are people who think little of stealing either._

Not that he’d even had any gold to be stolen. Just everything he’d had left of his father: a family ring, too big to fit his narrow fingers; a spare pair of overlarge boots tied to his pack; a set of worn hunting knives; and twenty silver pieces. In that first week, Keith lost it all. Everything but the clothes he wore and his mother’s dagger, and even that much was a struggle to keep from prying hands. 

Now, years later, it’s his reputation for being good with his dagger and even better with his fists that keeps the other thieves at bay. It doesn’t hurt that he’s learned to keep his scant few valuables close, nestled under layers of light, threadbare muslin and cheap leather, ever conscious of his possessions and his surroundings as he slides through the throngs of merchants and buyers filling the Grand Promenade.

It’s been an unlucky week. A poor week— shortchanged on a job, his usual fence currently sitting in jail, and his rationed stash of food ruined by rats. His empty stomach is the only reason he’s out here in the thick of the market at such an early hour, hunting for a purse to lighten, but Keith’s luck remains sour. There are more city guards than usual milling through the wide promenade, plus a number of armored soldiers clustered around food vendors and cheap curio stands, likely buying novelties to send back home to their countryside villages. Keith takes up a spot tucked mostly out of sight, just between a merchant’s stall and a towering statue of some Shirogane queen, and looks for a decent mark.

“You there!” a merchant calls— and keeps calling, utterly unfazed by Keith’s steady refusal to acknowledge him. “Come now, young man. Don’t be so shy! Surely your sweetheart would appreciate a gift, yes?”

Keith turns on his heel and takes a few halting steps toward the merchant’s stall, eager to shut him up before his yelling attracts even more unwanted attention. Heavily perfumed air wafts in his face, carried more by the intermittent breeze than by the merchant’s excessive fan-waving. It reeks of rose and lavender, though neither is able to fully disguise the heavy undercurrent of stale sweat.

“I don’t have anyone.”

The merchant pales behind his fan as Keith idly runs his fingers over the offerings laid out— cheap balsam fans, tacky lace, hideous colors. “Such a shame,” he says, suddenly guarded and uncertain, “for a handsome young man like yourself. Are you new to the capital?”

“No,” Keith answers, already pulling away. This whole stretch of the promenade is spoiled— too many guards, too many eyes, and too much attention from the vendor with the shitty fans.

“From the borderlands?” the merchant asks, eyeing Keith warily. He not-so-subtly tugs at the fabric under his displayed wares, slowly pulling them closer.

Keith says nothing and strides away, ignoring the glimpse he’d gotten of the merchant heaving out a relieved sigh. Years now he’s been in White Spire, acclimated to the city and all its bustle, and still he he doesn’t know what it is that people see in him so quickly— how it is that they can tell he doesn’t belong at a glance.

It’s his mannerisms, he thinks miserably as he skirts a wall along the market promenade. Too much of his life spent alone, never learning the things that other people seem to know intrinsically. It’s the habits he’d formed long before winding up on these streets, branded into him by a childhood spent subsisting off of unforgiving land while his father impressed on him the hard-won wisdom of the Ariz Wastes. Desert-living leaves a mark on people, maybe, and it reads in the sharp angles of his too-narrow face and slightly hollowed cheeks. It’s in his dusty, Wastelander blood.

And it frightens people. Makes them nervous. Causes them to look down their nose at him, quick to peg him for trouble. All that ever comes out of the Wastes are thieves and criminals, after all, and guilt eats into the lining of Keith's stomach whenever he proves that assumption correct.

Not that he's left with many other options. 

Sunlight strikes the high, white-plastered walls and shines so brightly that his eyes ache, but the breeze that snaps and furls the pennants bearing the crest and colors of the Shirogane clan— a silver-thread lion on a field of royal purple— keeps the day from sweltering.

Keith pauses at the Grand Square, where the crowd bunches and thins with the fluidity of the schools of fishes that swim the city’s canals. At its center is a burbling fountain featuring the likeness of Empress Tomoe, some Shirogane from ages past when Arus claimed territories further north and across the sea. She sits imperiously reclined at the top of the statue, a tome in hand and one foot carelessly dangling off the head of the coiled dragon she rests upon, all languorous curves and rippling marble flesh and easy, confident authority.

It’s unlike most of the other royal statues in the city, conformed to rigid poses and blank expressions, accompanied by plaques that Keith can’t read that no doubt blow smoke up the royal family’s collective ass.  _This_ is a thing of beauty. Water pours from the marble dragon’s open jaws and sprays in graceful arcs from the wounds of the many weapons lodged in its serpentine body. Behind her, a lion sits sprawled with the same regal laziness, its spread claws raking deep into the carved dragon’s hide. Surrounding the fountain statue is a wide, shallow pool; copper pieces blanket the bottom, obscuring most of the pale blue and silver tiles arranged in a pattern of stylized waves.

Keith slows as he cuts across the square, staring into the water. He’d first stumbled upon this fount years past, shortly after arriving in the capital with nearly nothing to his meager name; he’d managed to grab three scant handfuls of coins before a nearby guard started yelling at him, and the money had kept him fed for the better part of a week.

He’s not so desperate that he’d scrounge like that again, now, on a crowded afternoon like this. Not quite yet.

Keith picks one of the side streets that juts from the Grand Square like a spoke on a wheel and follows it. The stones are smooth and polished, well-swept and neatly ordered. It’s a well-off area, where middling merchants perch in the hopes of enticing their passing betters into a sale.

They don’t make the mistake of the fan merchant, beckoning him over. Here, Keith is met with only wary glances, appraising eyes quick to mark him as neither a potential customer nor a trustworthy sort. He stands out even more sorely around here, the shabbiness of his clothing and the huntedness of his steps in sharp contrast to the casual luxury of the people he slips past.

Keith shrugs them off and keeps moving, before anyone can get too uncomfortable and hail some city guard to throw him back down into the lower parts of town. Another few turns and he finds himself on a sparser avenue, lined with quiet shops and fine houses and just a handful of wandering people.

The thief keeps his head low and the bottom half of his face covered with a faded crimson scarf that’s tucked into his collar. The hunger currently twisting at the pit of his stomach keeps his steps brisk; it’s been too long since his last meal and he currently has only half a copper piece to his name. 

In the depths of this gnawing misery, his eyes alight on something promising. _Someone_ promising.

Further down the way is a nobleman flanked by two armored guards, the pair standing bored and idle as their master makes conversation with a florist on the front steps of her shop. Keith slinks a little closer and pretends to be looking inside the window of a nearby bakery, feigning interest in a display of delicate sweets he couldn’t even afford the crumbs of.

In the reflection of the glass, he can see that the young lord is tall, well-fed. Never wanted for a morsel in all his life, Keith imagines as he follows the strong lines of his broad shoulders and chest, his trim waist, the long legs half hidden under high-slitted robes. Well-dressed, too. The patterned silk of his garments alone is easily worth more than everything Keith owns, right down to the one-of-a-kind dagger that once belonged to his mother.

And he’s _handsome_ , Keith sourly observes. Strong-jawed and dark of hair, quick to smile, cutting a figure that would make even a desire demon envious. Probably smells like crushed roses or whatever else nobles primp with, too. The woman talking to him is redder than the blooms of the glass-potted orchid in her hands, shyly covering her mouth as whatever the nobleman says prompts her to laugh.

One of his bodyguards rolls his neck and shoulders, clearly impatient, and the other busies herself with rethreading the laces on her mid-calf boots. They don’t notice Keith watching. 

The thief sucks in a breath through his teeth at the size of the coinpurse that the young nobleman pulls from his sumptuous robes, no doubt heavy with gold and silver. He hums approvingly under his breath. _Perfect._

The florist bows repeatedly as money changes hands, the lord immediately handing off the newly-purchased orchid to one of his less than enthused bodyguards. He tucks the purse back into the opening of his robe, on his left side, just against his ribs.

Keith licks his lips as he makes note of its location. What counts as walking-around money to a man of that class is a life-changing sum to someone in Keith’s shoes. On that kind of fortune, he could eat well for a year: meat and honey and finely-milled bread, sweets he’s never had the luxury of tasting. Or he could purchase safe passage across the sea and start somewhere new again, escape to a place where his Wastelander origins and lack of a family name won’t mean a lick to anyone.

But _how_ to get it without losing his head in the process is trickier.

Possibilities lay themselves out like the paintings across temple doors and the walls of private gardens, and Keith fidgets as he follows at a distance, waiting for an opening. The nobleman’s guards are mostly silent, but the lord likes to wave and make conversation with the few shop owners he passes.

And they must feel safe in this section of the city, upon these clean and quiet streets, because his bodyguards stroll along with the laxness of an afternoon jaunt. The bigger one is more focused on trying to pass off the potted orchid to his smaller counterpart, visibly annoyed as he’s forced to continue holding his master’s purchase. Maybe they think they’re untouchable here, given that the well-tended neighborhood is far from a hotbed of thieves.

As they hit an empty stretch of street, devoid of witnesses or wide shop windows, Keith spies an opening and acts with gut-spinning haste. He’s spent years watching duelists make sport in the hidden places in the city’s underbelly, memorizing their moves to practice later with his mother’s short dagger; the illicit duels are showy and savage by turns, and it’s the savagery Keith imitates now.

He notes the weapons the guards wear as he picks up speed, the worn leather soles of his thin boots helping to dampen the sound of his approach. Surprise is one of his few allies, and he’ll need it— paired with quick, decisive speed— to incapacitate all three of them before they can gut him first. By the time the bodyguards hear his rapid footfalls and turn, Keith is already upon them.

He targets the bigger guard first— capitalizing on the moment of delayed realization, the split second where the armored behemoth hesitates to drop the crimson orchid in his hand and draw his sword— and barrels at him full-speed, unflinching even as he meets the wide-eyed glare of a man easily thrice his size. 

The seconds slip by so quickly that it feels like time is racing to keep up with him. Keith plants a narrow foot on the guard’s broad thigh, draped in metal-studded leather, and propels himself upward. There’s no loss of momentum as he drives his knee up and into the man’s face, likely breaking his nose, and then hooks his other leg over his broad shoulders and swings his weight forward. The move pulls the guard down onto his head with swift and brutal ease, Keith narrowly avoiding the cobblestones and his opponent's pinning weight.

Before the smaller guard can even finish telling her lord to stay back, Keith rolls from her companion and lunges at her, too. They’re of a closer size, although Keith is still scrawny by comparison. He snags ahold of her wrist as she tries to slash at him with a short-sword, grips it tight, and jerks her arm until he feels it pop from the socket. It’s maybe enough to take her out of the fight, but Keith lands a sharp kick to the back of one of her knees and sends her sprawling too, just to be sure.

And last, he regards the nobleman. For as fast and jarring as the last moments passed, this one almost seems to linger. Tension is rife in the still air, the silence around them is suddenly heavy enough to bog down time itself.

The young lord stands there with his sleek, narrow-bladed sword drawn and a gloved hand stretched out imploringly toward Keith. Dark eyes dart worriedly toward his two incapacitated guards, but never for long. He means to say something, his mouth just barely open, but Keith has no interest in giving the man time to plead or threaten or whatever else pampered nobles do the moment they’re under duress. 

He draws his dagger— gleaming, lavender-edged metal with a cloth-wrapped handle— and takes a run at the tall, well-bred man. It's surprising how agilely the big nobleman can move, how quick he is to parry Keith’s underhanded strikes. Not just a pretty face and a loaded vault, then; he has wits and battle-honed reactions, and Keith resolves to end this fight before his skillful opponent gets the upper hand. 

The young lord isn’t used to no-holds-barred duels or streetfighting, though Keith can tell he knows his way with a sword. _Really_ knows, unlike the nobility that parades around the city with gem-studded swords displayed at the hip, all show and no skill. He’s a trained knight-officer, probably, fresh from a few years at the Garrison. But Keith’s beaten knights before. Knows he can do it again, too, even if this nobleman is no slouch. There are a few moments in their quick scuffle where Keith genuinely fears he might’ve gotten in over his head— seeing the ends of his hair sheared off as he springs into a flip to avoid the sleek blade is one of them— but his small stature and less-than-chivalrous attacks work to his advantage.

Keith drops low and braces himself against the ground as he brings his leg up in a sweeping kick that catches the young lord by surprise. His heel meets the high, fine bone under his cheek with just enough force to send the man’s head snapping to one side, the length of his tied back hair whipping. As the noble stumbles back, a finely gloved hand pressed to his red-marked face in shock, Keith presses the advantage.

He doesn’t even have a chance to lift his sword again before Keith is scaling him, the soles of his boots digging into strong thighs as he leverages himself up, unbalancing the tall nobleman as he throws a leg over his shoulder and flips them both. Keith has enough control that he takes little damage as they hit the hard cobblestones, rolling _just so_ at the moment of impact, pleased at the sound of the noble’s sword clattering away on the street.

The lord takes a heavy jarring from the fall, gasping to fill his lungs after having the air dashed right out of him. He struggles even so, trying to turn his bulk into an advantage by rolling his weight over and onto Keith.

Keith is having none of it. He flips the nobleman onto his back, plants a knee against the bottom of his ribcage and a dagger against his throat, and immediately shoves his hand into the rich, silky fabric of his robes to take his prize. His fingers clench around a fat pouch of soft leather and brocade; it clinks softly.

“Gotcha,” Keith whispers as he draws it out, letting out a little sigh of relief.

Pinned under him by the press of a knee and the warning kiss of a blade against the flexing cords of his throat, the nobleman is wide-eyed and wearing traces of a mortal terror that Keith knows well. Without really meaning to, the thief’s gaze catches on the tight furrow of the man’s brow, those warm grey eyes aimed at him in some righteous kind of anger, the blood smeared across his chin from a freshly split lip, the mouth parted by panting breaths that keep his broad chest heaving.

There’s the barest flex of movement in the young lord’s fingers and Keith answers it with a razor-thin slice along the skin over his jugular vein, barely enough to draw blood. It works. The man’s eyes flutter shut as he swallows so thick that Keith can trace the motion all the way down his throat. He goes rigid still, waiting.

Keith could kill him, like this. He could. As the nobleman peers at him questioningly through full lashes and errant strands of long, loose hair, Keith judges it unnecessary. A slain lord would be far more headache than he’s worth and far more trouble than Keith needs.

Without another moment of delay, he rises up swiftly and dances away, wary of the nobleman making a grab at him. With his dagger pointed down in warning, Keith takes a few hesitant steps backward; the handsome lord watches him all the while, jaw slack and shapely brows raised high.

And then Keith turns and flees.

The beat of his feet down the paved avenue nearly matches that of his racing heart. He puts distance between himself and the distressed nobleman, cutting his way back to the bustle of the Grand Square.

Keith tugs his scarf a little higher, meaning to slip into the crowd and get lost until things blow over. A week or two in the seedier parts of the underbelly might do it. Or he might skip to one of the smaller towns clustered near the capital, now that he has some coin— sleep in an actual bed in an actual inn, with warm meals and a bath. Wait out the rounds of searching until the nobleman grows weary of pressing it or the shame of being thoroughly bested by a common, scrawny thief persuades him to put the whole mess to bed.

His musings are cut short when he spies a whole battalion of city guards coming down the promenade, their bronze armor glinting under the sun. Poor timing. It’s in keeping with his luck as of late. As Keith turns to double back, he sees another four or five guards coming up the way behind him, their pace brisk as they part the crowd like water before the bow of a ship.

“Shit.” Keith takes a deep breath and turns to head down the first street on his right. Under the din of people buying and selling wares all along the row, he can faintly discern a rising clamor just out of sight. Urgent voices calling out, sounding signal horns, the metallic rattle of chainmail-wearing guards moving at a quick march.

His blood quickens again. Under his cowl and cheap tunic, a nervous sweat breaks out. Keith keeps his head down and his eyes low, trying to outpace the murmurs already racing down the street from the Square. The stolen coinpurse thumps heavily against his ribs with every step, reminding him that the risk was worth it— _is_ worth it, if he can only make it out of here alive.

A series of sudden shouts not far behind him gives Keith cause to abandon his casual ruse. He bolts, listening to the clatter of armor ringing out and orders being given, and makes straight for the high wall of an old temple, its wood and stone walls painted with images of the pantheon.

His slim hands— wrapped in gloves so worn they’re missing the fingers— and narrow-toed boots grip along brick and crevice, propelling him upward nearly as quickly as he’d moved across flat ground. He heaves himself up and over the edge of the roof, nimbly dodging the bolt of a crossbow one guard managed to fire off. And then he’s up and running, heavy footfalls no doubt raining plaster dust down onto the worshippers within, and navigating his way back down to street-level with some daring jumps and careful balancing along garden walls.

Keith hits the ground and immediately heads in the direction of the docks along the river, though in an indirect and strafing line due to tight rows of houses with sloped roofs and the city’s wide canals. If he could just find a boat headed down to the coast and a seaport, then he can purchase his way to a new kingdom—

“There! There! The thief!” a voice calls, startling Keith. More guards, but these ones wear the silver armor and purple cloaks of the palace.

“Fucking blighted hell,” he mutters to himself.

His legs are in motion long before his brain’s caught up, carrying him through the crowded street with the flighty speed of the stringy antelope he grew up hunting. It sounds like a small army chasing him, and as he hangs a hard right down a narrow alley, Keith wonders what he did to kick the hornets’ nest _so damn hard_.

Maybe the noble he robbed has sway with the guard captain, or friends in even higher places. Hells, maybe he’s a relation of the royal family. Or maybe he’s fucking _Elgar’nan_ in disguise, and now the god of vengeance is getting his immediate due.

Sweat makes Keith’s palms slippery as he heaves himself up and over a stone wall that divides the alleyway, the soles of his boots slipping in the muck when he lands on the other side. The hurried calls of frustrated guards echo behind him— orders to go around, to cut him off on a street further ahead— and Keith’s heart hits against his ribs with enough force to cut his breaths short.

He’s not far from the docks. Three streets and a canal, maybe, and he suddenly wishes he could swim. Keith runs toward the brighter light of the main street, his labored breaths echoing noisily off of the looming, plastered walls on either side of him. Half a dozen royal guards appear before the alley entrance, swords and spears drawn, stopping him short. Quick as he is, and as much as he trusts his reflexes and his punches, the odds against him are dismal. And even if Keith turned back, even if he made it over the wall again, there are only more enemies waiting.

He can only stand his ground here. He can only fight. As usual, it’s all that’s left to him.

Keith draws his dagger and assumes a ready stance. His breaths come out slow and shaky as the royal guards fan out across the alley entrance, two-deep. They approach in tight formation, well-trained and wary of the threat Keith poses, even cornered and ragged from the chase.

They move on him together, but even their practiced and precise strategy isn’t impervious to Keith’s rage and desire to go down swinging. The whole thing is over so quickly that it can scarcely be called more than a scuffle, but Keith at least manages to break one guard’s arm and roundhouse kick another into a stupor before they get him down.

Too many hands grip onto him, restraining him in place. Keith grunts as a leg swipes his feet out from under him, his knees hitting the grimy stonework with bone-bruising force. A storm of curses and heavy breaths hangs over him as he’s forced into a painful hunch by the soldiers holding his arms and pressing him down. One digs under his coat and yanks out the stolen purse, the gold within clinking softly as it’s carried away.

There are too many voices for Keith to keep track of, too many footfalls. Reinforcements. Through his sweat-clinging bangs, panting so hard his vision shakes, Keith lifts his gaze up and finds the nobleman from earlier standing at the alley entrance, bruised and disheveled. The lord’s chest is still heaving under his dirtied white and gold robes, and he stares back at Keith with an expression that lacks the fury and disgust that the thief had expected.

“Is this the one, Prince Takashi?” someone asks, and a hand fisted in Keith’s hair wrenches his head all the way back with enough force to make his neck pop.

The lord— no, the fucking _prince_ , because damn his luck— says nothing as he takes a hesitant step forward, his bloodied lips parted as he looks down at Keith like he’s stumbled upon a wounded and dangerous creature. Keith wonders if he means to stand and watch or if he’ll swing the sword himself. Probably it’s beneath him to carry out executions of common thieves, but maybe this is personal. Maybe he wants to make Keith suffer.

“That’s him,” the smaller of his retainers calls back, damning Keith. Her counterpart is sporting the remains of a bloodied nose, looking no happier at the sight of their assailant. “He assaulted us both and struck His Highness, drawing blood. Not to mention the petty theft,” she adds.

The unkind hand releases him, but not before giving his head a rough push downward, ensuring all Keith can see is the grimy, dirt-smeared stone underneath him. “A last lesson, thief. Avert your gaze from your betters.”

Somewhere out of sight, a royal soldier gives an order and Keith can hear the sound of a sword unsheathed; he can feel the brief touch of cold steel as it kisses across his nape, marking the spot to strike true.

“Wait.”

There’s the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps, blended with concerned murmurs and at least one weary sigh. Keith doesn’t move.

“Stay your hand, Knight-Captain Reeves. I’d have a word with him, first.”

“Your Highness,” the gruff voice somewhere above Keith answers, stiff and jilted by the intervention.

Through the curtain of his disheveled hair, Keith can make out fine boots with white fox trim and the hems of robes bearing an artful floral pattern that— now that he’s looking for it— certainly do bear the Shirogane crest. In gold thread, there are lions wreathed in blossoms. It’s subtle, given how ostentatious nobility usually is.

He’s surprised when more of the prince drops into view, and it’s only a moment later that he realizes the prince is kneeling on the same filthy ground that he is, all that fine silk sullied just to gently slide his fingers under Keith’s chin and tilt his head upward.

Keith meets his gaze, and somewhere out of sight the guard captain huffs.

“At ease, Ser Lambert,” Prince Takashi says without glancing away, not perturbed in the least over Keith’s direct and unflinching stare. He answers the thief’s intensity with a smile that is somehow both reassured and reassuring. “Well. You made quite the impression back there.”

Keith blinks, and at last his gaze slips aside. Prince Takashi’s face lingers in his mind’s eye— handsome features marred by heavy bruising and blood, dirt smeared across his chin, and all of it by Keith’s doing. Despite falling prey to a thief, the prince is kind-eyed and calm. Gentle, even. And Keith can’t fathom _why_.

“You don’t want to die here, like this,” he continues, voice dropped low. It’s too pleasant on Keith’s ears after all the gruff disdain of the guards. “And I don’t want you to, either. I would much rather make an arrangement to both of our benefits, if you’re interested?”

Keith tilts his head. “An arrangement?” he asks, wary of the apparent kindness.

“It’s recently come to my attention that there may be some… gaps in my martial education,” Prince Takashi says, fingers dusting over the blooming bruise across his left cheek. “I believe I would be well-served having you as a combat instructor and sparring partner. In exchange, you would receive room and board and a reasonable salary. And, obviously, you’d be spared an execution.”

There’s a moment of expectant silence afterward— the prince before him on bended knee, hands clad in supple sable leather clasped loose together, gentler with him than any orphanage matron had ever managed to be— which Keith breaks with a low laugh.

“Really? You expect me to believe I’m not going to be punished for striking royalty?” Though fear moves through him like a serpent winding its way across the dunes, Keith forces a disbelieving snort and musters a challenge. “I’m no backwoods idiot.”

“I’m commuting your sentence,” Prince Takashi says, bright in spite of the thief’s venom. His smile turns wry. “Though some would argue that having me for a student is a crueler fate.”

Somewhere behind him, one of the royal guards laughs before being hissed into silence by his comrades.

Keith licks his teeth and swallows down the tang of iron. His smile is no doubt tinged with blood, courtesy of a kick from one of the guards, but the prince hardly seems put-off.

“Okay. It’s a deal.” There’s no sense in not accepting, Keith tells himself. It’s a chance to slip the noose, and so long as he’s living, he can bide his time until there’s an opportunity to strike out on his own again.

“Release him,” Prince Takashi commands, rising at once, and the hands forcing Keith down make a swift retreat.

The prince offers a hand to help him to his feet, but Keith stands alone. Wobbly, from the likely bruising across his knees and the discomfort of the position he’d been forced to hold, but on his own. 

“Prince Takashi, I must counsel you against this,” Ser Lambert insists, armor clanking as he stomps over, his face growing redder by the second.  “This thief deserves no mercy— much less _charity_ from your royal hand, Your Highness.” 

“I appreciate your concern, Knight-Captain,” Prince Takashi says. He waves for his retainers to come join him— the same pair that Keith violently overpowered less than twenty minutes ago, and neither of them looking very pleased at the turn of events— and assumes on a tone that brooks no argument. “I’ll be taking him into my custody immediately. Please turn him over to my retainers at once.”

The captain of the guards does just that, a tense silence settling over the alley. Keith can feel the man’s burning stare hard against his back as he’s led away at a limping pace, each of the prince’s personal guards holding tight to either of his arms.

In the street, royal guards part the crowd that has gathered around the commotion. Gasps and concerned well-wishing greet the battered prince, while whispers linger in the wake of the ragged thief being escorted behind him. Keith keeps his head bowed low, but even so he catches sight of something that sparks another ember of guilt he can’t quite smother: an out-of-breath city guard proudly handing Prince Takashi a bent and broken orchid with no pot, its bare roots and clumped soil reverently placed in the prince’s waiting hands. 

Prince Takashi carries it protectively, cradling its bent stalk as they proceed in the direction of the monumental palace, rising above the city like a snow-capped peak— the White Spire the capital came to be named for. An escort of guards clears the way well ahead of them and holds the crowd behind them at bay. As the four of them walk along the canal that feeds the deep moat around the palace itself, it’s almost secluded.

Free of listening ears and searching eyes, the prince drops into a step that’s more or less even with his retainers and Keith. He smiles, winces from the tug on his split lip, and asks for Keith’s name.

“It’s Keith.” There’s a silence that feels like they’re waiting for more. “Just Keith.”

“Keith,” the prince greets warmly, inclining his head just so. “Prince Takashi Shirogane. I take it you didn’t know who I was when we ran into each other earlier.”

“I obviously did not,” Keith answers dryly.

The larger guard speaks up, watching Keith with the mindfulness of a man once bitten and twice shy. “Do you make a habit of stalking nobles and cutting their purses?”

Keith works his jaw from side to side, irritated, and then shrugs. “Only when they make a habit of being careless.”

“Peace, please,” Prince Takashi sighs. “Keith, this is Ser Yossi Alcavaledo,” he says, smiling brightly up at the man who stands a head taller than himself. All Ser Yossi does is grunt, his golden eyes focused straight ahead.

“And may I introduce you to Ser Vio Alcavaledo,” Prince Takashi says, gesturing to the sandy-skinned, freckled woman beside him. She looks at Keith sidelong, no doubt still in pain from her dislocated shoulder, but politely inclines her head anyway.

Keith gets the distinct impression that both of the prince’s retainers would be happy to shove him into the nearby canal and watch him flounder.

“If I am unavailable, you may ask either of them for assistance,” the prince says, earning dual sighs from his handlers. “Your clean slate starts now, Keith, as far as I am concerned. I will pardon you of any past crimes that are within my power, but for the common good and your own, you cannot continue thieving. Crimes against nobility don’t go unpunished.”

“Except in this case, apparently,” Ser Vio mutters. She gingerly turns her arm, noting the discoloration that runs up along her wrist.

“Queen Eboshi isn’t going to be pleased,” Ser Yossi rumbles. He lifts a hand to wipe at the slow trickle of blood under his nose, crimson smearing thin over his warm umber skin.

“My mother is rarely pleased with me anyway,” the prince mutters back. “Coming off of a major victory, I think she’ll afford me a little latitude.”

Ser Vio’s voice sinks low. “You have a _very_ generous estimation of how far the queen is willing to indulge you, Your Highness.”

“It’s less a matter of indulgence and more one of negotiation. I can _make_ this work.”

“You’re looking for a fight, my prince,” Ser Vio warns, her voice dropping to secretive tones. She eyes Keith like he’s eavesdropping. “My worry is that you’re going to find one that doesn’t end well for you.” 

“I appreciate your concern, as always, but—”

“I…” Keith reddens as all three of them turn to look at him, surprised by his sudden interjection. Yossi and Vio wear mirror expressions of stony apprehension, but Prince Takashi’s patient look and faint smile are encouraging. “I don’t have to go back with you, you know. Your Highness. If it’ll cause trouble.”

“It _will_ cause trouble,” Ser Yossi says without missing a beat, mouth settling into a sharp line.

“Halt. Give us a minute, please,” Prince Takashi says, waving both of his retainers off. At a show of hesitance, he exaggerates the gesture, arm sweeping broadly until they release Keith and slowly retreat a few yards away.

The prince takes a deep breath and moves a few steps toward the railing along the canal. Keith follows hesitantly, maintaining a few feet of cautious distance between them. He’s still not sure what to make of this man who stands leaning over blue waters rushing with fish and turtles, the front of his white robes darkened from the soil of the potless plant he’s still holding in one hand.

Keith grips onto the wooden rail and stares down, wondering if the prince is reconsidering their deal.

“Keith,” the prince says, his shoulders sinking with a long sigh. “What you did back there was remarkable. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

Keith shifts his in place. “You really were impressed?” he asks, wearing his disbelief openly. He’s earned blows and barbed words for far less than what he did to Prince Takashi. “I kicked you in the face, Your Highness.”

The prince laughs, his pretty eyes squinting shut. “I’m well aware. I can still feel it,” he mutters, touching his bruised cheek. “But yes, I was genuinely amazed. Even taking us off-guard, it’s... I’m no stranger to being attacked, Keith, but my previous assailants were all trained killers or seasoned warriors. You don’t seem to be either one.”

“No,” Keith agrees. He laces his fingers together loosely, awkward as he tries to find a way to hold himself that doesn’t highlight how out of his depth he is. “I’m nothing like that.” 

The prince glances down at the orchid in hand and starts fussing with it, gloved finger running gently along its bent stem. He smiles. “I truly thought you were an assassin, for a moment there. And a _bold_ one. I believed I was going to die, and all because I wanted to take a walk and buy some flowers. And as you took my money and ran off, all I could sit there and think was, ‘Just a cutpurse? _Really?_ ’”

Prince Takashi laughs again— at himself— and shakes his head. “All three of us, undone by a lowtown thief who didn’t even know I was a prince.”

“You’re in pretty high spirits about it,” Keith says. “And awfully generous. Most lords would want me skinned and strung up.”

The prince nods at the truth of it. “And that would be a shame. I don’t know where your skill comes from, Keith, but it pains me to think of it going to waste. Your life, too.”

“Why?” It’s the question that hangs over Keith like fog sometimes sits above the river, slipping down the canalways before dawn arrives.

“Why?”

“Why do you care what happens to me?” Keith clarifies, picking at his blunt and dirt-darkened nails. “ _You_ of all people?”

The prince hums at that, looking out across the water as he thinks.

“Well, you did spare my life first,” he shrugs, smiling when Keith lets out a disbelieving little huff. “And at the risk of unburdening my personal troubles on you… I have been mired in death for the better part of the past year, and knowing you’d been killed on my account would’ve only brought me grief. I came up with the best solution I could, in the heat of the moment.”

Keith’s shoulders sag as a little of the tension runs out of him.

“So, my offer stands,” Prince Takashi says, shrugging. “I believe it’s a good opportunity for us both, honestly. And I have no intentions of keeping you a prisoner, if that’s what you fear.” 

Keith watches as the prince gingerly cradles pathetic orchid in one hand and tugs out his coinpurse with the other, weighing the small fortune in his palm. “If you would rather take the money and run, I won’t stop you.”

He extends his arm and offers the coins to Keith, the bag softly clinking in his hand. 

“Neither will they,” he adds, tilting his head toward Ser Yossi and Ser Vio, who are milling some twenty feet away. “Though the city guards are another matter completely.”

Keith goes to take the coinpurse before he’s even formed a proper thought, and only freezes after— with his hands loosely folded around it, grimy fingers brushing the warmth of the prince’s palm. It ought to be a trick, but it isn't. Or it doesn't have the feel of one, at least. The prince remains even and patient, making no move to snatch back his purse or shame Keith for his moment of desperation.

Slowly, Keith releases the gold.

“If I change my mind later, can I still leave?” he asks, cupping his fingers over Prince Takashi’s and pressing until they curl back over the purse. The man needs to learn to keep his money a little closer; he’s a thief’s wet dream like this, with a lord’s ransom held out like it’s nothing more than an apple.

“I’d never force you to stay,” Prince Takashi answers. 

Keith nods and takes a step in. Part of him is still surprised when the prince doesn’t flinch away, considering it was less than an hour ago that he threw the man to ground and put a blade to his throat. His surprise is greater still when Prince Takashi beams at him, clearly pleased with his choice.

“Let’s go, then.” He turns back to his guards, beckoning Keith with a casual wave of his hand, trusting him to follow.

And Keith does. At first with uncertain steps, wondering if he’s playing the fool by believing everything Prince Takashi has said. But something in his gut spurs him onward, trailing in the prince’s shadow. He finds it hard to doubt in the man who keeps smiling at him in spite of the reopened cut on his lip; who keeps cradling that wounded little plant close to his chest, as if it’s a fledgling bird.

No words are exchanged, but neither Ser Vio nor Ser Yossi make a move to grab him again. Instead, they part and wait for Keith and Prince Takashi to take the lead, following just a step behind.

“Please wipe off some of that blood, Your Highness,” Ser Yossi says, passing a handkerchief wetted from a canteen to him. He sighs out loud. “If only for our sake. The queen will put us on a roasting spit when she sees the state you’re in. Can’t even walk about freely in your own city,” he grumbles, glancing down at Keith.

Red-faced, Keith tries not to watch as the prince cleans up the traces of his handiwork. There’s nothing to do about the deepening color across the man’s left cheek, under his eye. It’ll be a nasty reminder for the next week or two.

Prince Takashi doesn’t quite manage to disguise the wince as he passes the cloth gingerly over the bruise. “Nothing’s broken, at least.”

“I wasn’t _trying_ to break anything,” Keith says quietly. He’d only meant to stun with that kick, send him stumbling back.

“Lucky me,” the prince says as he passes the dirtied handkerchief back to his retainer. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

Keith shrugs. “Here and there. My father taught me some. I learned a lot more when I got here, though. Had to.”

Prince Takashi nods, little lines creasing between his eyebrows as he considers that information. “And you’re from the Ariz Wastes, correct?”

“You’ve got it,” he answers, dry as the barren plains and deserts he’d grown up roaming. 

But the prince grins wide despite the flat response. “I knew it. The way you speak reminds me of people I spoke with in the Ona region. Around, ah… fuck. Not Rainesfere or Rossleigh. Red-Something.”

Keith’s eyebrows shoot up at the mention of tiny desert towns he knows by name. “You mean Redcliffe?” 

“That’s it!”

“How do you…” Keith’s never known anyone to know— or care, frankly— about the outposts and towns scattered through the Wastes. “I mean, yeah. Yes. I grew up less than a day’s ride from Redcliffe. But how do _you_ know it?”

“The last time I was able to get away from here— that wasn’t a war campaign, at least— I took some cartographers with me and toured around the Ariz Wastes. It was before the Garrison, so… three years ago, maybe? Even royal records on the region are sparse, and I wanted to fix that. To get to know the land and the people, as I do the kingdom’s other domains. The Wastes are as much a part of Arus as anywhere else, after all.”

“Oh.” Keith pulls a face, hoping his faint admiration doesn’t show. It’s the last thing he’d expected to hear out of the mouth of someone born into unparalleled privilege and comfort. “I’m glad you didn’t die out there.”

The prince sputters out a short laugh. “Me too, though it was never a likely prospect. I had an entire expedition supporting me. And Ser Vio and Ser Yossi as well,” he adds, turning his head and flashing them both a quick smile.

Keith turns his head, too, and finds the prince’s loyal retainers look less than enthused by the reminder.

“I am sworn to follow my prince anywhere,” Ser Yossi intones, gravelly and just a touch sour. “Even to the arse-end of Arus, where there are scorpions the size of hogs and being the tallest means everyone else clusters around to use you as shade.”

“I don’t know how you Wastelanders do it,” Ser Vio admits, shaking her head. “I’m sweating just thinking about that place. It felt like I was being roasted alive in my armor.”

Keith shrugs. “You just get used to it, I guess. I didn’t know anything different until I left.”

The prince nods at that. The way his gaze rakes over Keith’s face is curious. “And how have you found White Spire?” 

Keith grunts, but it sticks in his throat. He holds his tongue while he wonders what to say. He’d arrived in the city lost and alone, hoping to find honest work and a better living than he’d been managing alone in the Wastes; he’d ended up settling for neither.

“You can be honest.” 

“It’s been shitty, personally. But... the statues are nice. And the temples. I’d never seen— I mean, we didn’t have big paintings or mosaics back home, obviously. Nothing like that.”

“You appreciate art,” the prince says, nodding. His expression is open, inquisitive, cheerful. “Do you like to draw? Paint?”

Did he? Keith had only ever trailed sticks through sand, scorched designs into leather, whittled bone into little charms for his father. It might be embarrassing to admit that to the second highest power in the kingdom. “No. I mean, I’ve never tried it.”

The prince and his retainers keep up a thread of conversation long after Keith falls into silence. He doesn’t have much interest in tracking their words, anyway; not when the palace looms so near, Keith never having chanced to come so close before.

The outermost bailey is set atop a high stone wall, slightly curved to make scaling it more difficult. It’s lined with statues that have accumulated over the past two-hundred years without invasion. They alternate between dignified Shirogane rulers and the lions symbolic of the royal family, each one carven in a different pose and manner: roaring, crouching, snarling, sleeping. Some are painted subtly, some garishly, and some are left completely bare. Keith scans the face of each one they pass, wondering if there’s already a likeness of Prince Takashi.

He jumps when someone touches his shoulder.

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the prince says, his hand held up in a placating gesture. “I just wanted to tell you ahead of time that… this situation is a little delicate. If I ask you to do something, please trust that I am only trying to help.”

Keith nods and licks his lips, uncertain of what to say. He has little other recourse. Outside of the prince’s protection, he is a lone thief _deeply_ wanted by the knight-captain of the city guard, and the memory of cold steel touching intently against the back of his neck is fresh enough to make him shudder.

The prince leads them up a wide column of stairs, where the palace’s main gate awaits. The steps are lined with soldiers who already stand at stiff attention, though they seem to draw up even taller as Prince Takashi passes. At the gate, the knight-lieutenant on watch stops them, his surprise at the young prince’s disheveled appearance written clear on his face.

The cut across his bottom lip, the bruising of his face, the loose wisps of black hair that have spilled from his hair tie and now fall messily across his face: none of it paints a pretty picture. That Ser Yossi and Ser Vio bear their own injuries can’t help, either.

“Prince Takashi,” the guard says slowly, his eyes roving pointedly over Keith, who is new and unknown and suspicious. “A friend of yours, Your Highness?”

“My new combat instructor.” As the knight-lieutenant’s gaze lingers concernedly over Keith’s handiwork, the prince adds, “He gave a _very_ convincing demonstration.”

Keith lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding when the guards of the first bailey allow him to pass, their inquisitive stares trailing after him. He nearly treads on the prince’s heels as they cross a bridge toward the palace, wary of losing what feels like his only lifeline. This strange new world he’s been drawn into— sheltered behind white walls, beautiful and serene— is as foreign to him as Oriande, the magical realm of dreams and the seat of the gods. Both he knew to exist; neither he ever expected to see in person.

Keith is far from superstitious, but the half-remembered stories of spirits luring people into conjured dream worlds flicker at the back of his mind; he thinks for a moment of desire demons, beautiful and tempting, who are said to offer their victims all they could ever yearn for before possessing them.

He stares at the breadth of Prince Takashi’s back and assures himself it can’t be the case, no matter how impossibly kind the man seems. Keith had drawn the prince’s blood, and spirits can’t bleed.

Keith shakes off the thoughts and looks down into the water under them as they cross, a little uneasy at the steepness of the drop. The moat is stocked with fat koi who follow them in a bubbling mass, their wide open mouths peeking above the water.

“It’s because the guards like to feed them,” the prince says by way of explanation when he catches Keith staring.

After passing small fields and paddocks, they stop at a second bailey manned by more guards, who are just as concerned at the state of their prince. They’re then led down a hall lined with narrow windows meant for archers and into an even larger courtyard, and Keith feels like he’s finally arrived at the palace proper.

It’s so beautiful that for a moment Keith wonders why the prince would ever want to leave. This courtyard is a small forest in the heart of a city built of stone and white plaster, the heavy boughs of trees and carefully manicured gardens utterly tranquil. Far distant, sitting atop a steeply sloped platform of grey stone, is the towering white castle that stands at the palace’s heart.

It’s a complex of buildings, really, Keith can tell as they get closer, connected by closed halls that overlook the palace’s lovely gardens and ponds. They’re all plaster-white, as much of the city is, with curved, grey-tiled roofs and black eaves. The grandest part of the castle sits at its center, at least six stories tall and nearly as large as the capital’s university, nestled securely behind the protection of the final bailey.

Prince Takashi leads them on a winding path through the trees, clearly knowing the way well. Sers Yossi and Vio follow behind Keith, silent but for their footfalls and the movement of their armor.

Keith can tell this isn’t the usual way into the palace. The prince takes them past the stables, up rickety steps, and skimming under the patrols that walk the ramparts atop the bailey’s walls. Then they’re on a footpath that cuts through extensive vegetable gardens and past the great, steaming pools and lengths of clothesline where dozens of washers are at work. They skirt around outdoor kitchens where servants snap quickly to attention as they pass, relaxing only at a wave from the prince, who presses a finger to his lips in a silent request. 

Keith’s jaw drops a fraction to see it returned, the cooks and errand runners miming their lips being sealed, hiding their laughs and grins behind their hands as they watch the prince sneak a grimy cutpurse into the palace.

At a set of narrow stone stairs leading up to a plain and unassuming door, Ser Yossi stops. He steps back, considers Keith, and then looks to Prince Takashi. His wide shoulders fall as he sighs. “If you’re set on carrying out this strange crusade of yours… what must I do to help?”

The prince smiles. “Could you please go find Miki? And tell them to gather some of my old clothes. Help pick some that look like they’ll fit Keith. Nothing with our crest, though, or the queen will have a fit.”

Ser Yossi says nothing, but spends a moment staring down Keith, presumably making note of his size. That done, he gives his prince a deep bow and then leaves, moving quickly to carry out the request.

Ser Vio sighs. “And what mundane task would you ask of me, Your Highness?”

“Um, if you could locate me a nice pot for this, I would be grateful,” he says, holding up the sad little orchid, its red blooms already wilting.

“As you command, Your Highness,” she says, offering him a salute and the barest hint of a smile.

And like that, it’s only the two of them. Three, if you count the plant.

“I trust you know how to go unseen and unheard,” the prince says, offering him a little smile. “Just follow my lead.”

The door leads to a small room filled with woven bins of soiled laundry, its shelves lined with glass jars filled with dried petals and herbs. From there is a long hallway, all bare wood and open windows, and then a proper room that has Keith marveling.

The wooden floors are dark and polished, gleaming with the light that filters down from high windows, and the walls feature detailed wildlife scenes in rich color and golden gilding. Keith could stare at it for an hour, inch by inch, noting all the different animals it holds, but the prince draws him onward with haste.

They make a right into another room, larger and grander— this one has dyed paper layered over the windows, each one the image of a god shining down with benevolence, bathing them in multicolored light as they steal through. Another hall, lined with ancient suits of Narahir armor and portraits of dead kings and queens, then a study with plush carpeting and towering shelves stuffed with books and scrolls.

They go up multiple set of stairs, and by now Keith is dreadfully lost. He’s never been inside of a building so large or labyrinthine, nor as striking and immaculate. They wind up in another hallway, dim and unlit and lined with more forgotten armor. 

“Wait,” the prince whispers, a hand held out to halt Keith in his tracks. With a little tug, he pulls Keith off to the side with him.

Long seconds pass, and Keith nearly asks what purpose it serves. And then he hears it— the steady rattle of chainmail and clunk of armored greaves. A pair of royal guards pass on patrol, neither of them paying any notice to the two figures skulking behind an enormous hallway statue.

“Follow me,” Prince Takashi says over his shoulder. At a brisk and only slightly dodgy walk, he leads Keith upstairs and through another half-dozen rooms and corridors. He knows exactly when to freeze and duck into alcoves and spare linen closets, holding a finger to his lips until the palace guards or wandering courtiers have passed.

It’s… oddly impressive, Keith thinks, as he’s led up to the prince’s private rooms without another soul even laying eyes on him. But he can’t help but wonder why a member of the royal family is so practiced at sneaking around the halls of his own palace. 

Once within, Prince Takashi locks his door fast and slumps against it, sighing out in apparent relief. Keith finds that worrisome.

“This is your room?”

“One of them, yes,” the prince answers idly, unaware as Keith gapes at the mere thought of having multiple. “This is just a sitting room. Make yourself comfortable.”

It’s bigger than the entire shack that Keith shared with his father. The wooden walls are artfully decorated in paper and hung cloth, and the wooden screens across the windows thrown open to let the breeze in. The view is unlike anything Keith has ever seen: the palace grounds lay far below, the treetops a field of verdant green speckled with blossoms, and the city of White Spire sprawls out before them like the gleaming white of the salt flats back home. In the distance, the mountains that surround the Vale of Narahir are just visible, snow-capped and cloud-shrouded.

“Will they kill me if they find me here?” Keith asks as he skims his fingers around the rim of a low black vase perched on a nearby table. It has desert plants the likes of which Keith hasn’t seen since he left the Wastes, some stout and plump-leafed, others prickly with spines; he’d taken them for granted as a child.

The prince’s eyebrows shoot upward. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t let anything like that happen. I wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t know I could protect you, Keith.”

“Then why all the slinking around?” Keith asks. “You’re good at it, too.”

“I used to sneak out a lot,” Prince Takashi says, glancing down and away, as if embarrassed. He smiles soft and reassuring. “I just need a little time to make my case and get you presentable. That’s all.”

“Who are you making a case to?”

“The queen.”

“Oh.” Keith swallows at the thought of his name— _him_ , an orphaned nobody from the fringes— being brought up before the highest power in all of Arus.

“Don’t worry. I hold more than enough cards to secure her blessing on your new position.” Prince Takashi sounds confident of that much, even if he says it with a tiredness that makes Keith look at him twice. “So long as you remain on relatively good behavior...”

Keith nods along in answer, only half-listening. He abandons the vase of succulents and cacti for the most beautiful thing he’s seen since stepping foot into the palace— or even before that.

“Oh, of course. You must be starving,” the prince says, following his gaze. “Help yourself, but try not to spoil your appetite completely. I saw pheasants hanging when we passed the kitchens.”

Keith approaches the tiered tower that sits on a table in the middle of the room with an awe probably better saved for the altar at a temple. His stomach is ready to scream at the sight: ripe fruit and fresh bread and treats stacked high, all in pretty and entirely untouched arrangements.

He grabs a plum first, because it’s all he recognizes at a sweeping first glance. His teeth break the crisp skin and a little bit of juice dribbles its way down his chin; Keith wipes it up and licks it from the back of his hand, careful not to waste a drop. It’s sweet and tangy and he’s already grabbing for another— and then second guessing as his gaze alights on ever more enticing treats. His fingers dart instead to a cluster of grapes so dark they’re nearly black, and then over a spread of small cakes, a dish of rice crackers, and beautiful little tarts covered in berry preserves.

“This is _good_ ,” Keith says as he bites into a small cake filled with a dark, sweet paste. He crams the rest of it into his mouth and grabs another, barely chewing before swallowing it down.

“Have you never had one before?” the prince asks, face drawn with a sad little hint of confusion. At the shake of Keith’s head, he looks surprised. “Well, taste everything and see what you like. That’s one of my favorites, filled with red bean paste. And there are honey cakes, too, and these are lemon meringue. I’ll have to ask for some chocolate for you to try later on.”

While he eats, the prince stops in front of a tall mirror and re-ties his hair, gathering all the silky dark strands into one tight knot. “I need to go change into something clean. Will you be fine if I leave you alone for a moment?”

Keith nods emphatically, his cheeks stuffed full, and tries to cram another grape into his mouth. 

It makes the prince smile to himself as he leaves, sparing one last look at Keith as he slides the wooden door shut behind him.

Keith’s happy to try a little bit of everything arrayed on the dish. It’s all delicious, of course-- bright, fresh, _sugary_. The rice crackers are a mix of flavors he finds addictive, salty and faintly sweet and just spicy enough to make him search for a pitcher of water. As Keith brushes the crumbs from his hands, he spies one sitting on a tray across the room, upon a dark desk that’s scattered with ink-covered papers.

He tilts his head at them as he pours himself a glass and drinks it down. He assumes it’s Shiro’s writing, all of the characters uniform and evenly spaced across the sheets of paper. Pretty to look at, and so is the black wax seal that bears the Shirogane lion-crest. 

“Reading other people’s personal correspondence is generally considered rude,” the prince comments suddenly, having returning while he was distracted and unawares.  He reaches past Keith to sweep the letters into a neat stack and hastily tucks them away— along with an artful rendering of a man in glasses.

“Well, I can’t read, so I wasn’t,” Keith responds as he sets his now-empty glass back down on its silver tray.

Prince Takashi’s cheeks darken a smidge; his face is freshly washed, all traces of blood and grime removed, and his bottom lip shines with what is probably a swipe of some healing salve. His new outfit has a high collar and a heavy brocade jacket; the gleam of its gold thread catches Keith’s eye.

“Oh. Right. We’ll have to fix that.” Prince Takashi clears his throat as he slides the papers into a drawer and locks it, the mechanical click loud and final. He tucks the key— worn on a length of corded leather around his neck— back under his clothes. 

“If you’re doing that because of me, you don’t have to,” Keith says as he follows the prince into an adjoining room. It’s a study, just as lavishly furnished as the room prior. “Like I said, I couldn’t read your love letters even if I wanted to—”

“They’re not _love letters_ ,” the prince insists over his shoulder. The deepening of his blush indicates otherwise.

“—and I could pick that lock one-handed, if I were inclined to. _Any_ lock.” Keith finishes, without really thinking that statement through.

Prince Takashi laughs, actually, though it carries some note of borderline disbelief. He turns and braces himself against a tall, elegant bookshelf and rests his other hand on his hip, staring at Keith in some faint wonder.

Keith braces for it, wondering at why he always does this— says exactly the wrong thing, the _worst_ thing, the thing that confirms every suspicion about his Wastelander ways. It’s how he got booted from orphanage homes, too. He shuts his eyes and waits for the prince to realize that he’s gone amiss in bringing Keith here, to a fucking _palace_ filled with gems and gold and silver ripe for the taking. He waits to be called a sullen, thieving wretch unfit for any home and thrown back onto the streets for the city guard to contend with.

But Shiro’s smile only widens, a hint of unspoken challenge there. “Alright. Show me, then.”

He’s audibly impressed when Keith manages to match his boast, opening the drawer in less than a minute while working with only one nimble hand. The thief looks back and finds the prince staring at the feeble lock with wide eyes and raised brows, his smile gone lopsided under a semi-vacant stare.

“That,” he says after a moment, “is concerning.”

Keith watches while the prince gathers up all the papers from the drawer and retreats deeper into his suite, ostensibly hiding them somewhere he believes will be more secure. It leaves Keith smiling despite some lingering misgivings about his current predicament; if nothing else, the prince himself is an unexpectedly friendly sort. Whatever else comes of today, he’s starting to think Prince Takashi might actually hold to his word of looking out for him.

The prince whistles low when he returns and spies the decimated tray of sweets and snacks, but says nothing else. He grabs one of the last pieces of soft, sweet milk bread for himself and leans against the sill of one of the wide, wooden-barred windows.

“I have a great many questions for you, but they can wait,” Prince Takashi says as he chews. “I’m sure you’d much rather bathe and eat something more substantial than cake and rice crackers, first.” 

Keith nods. He’d scarfed down half the food sitting on the prince’s table, but it had only quelled the rumblings in the pit of his stomach. He’d always eaten a lot— even as a child, taking portions nearly as large as his father— and the thought of the pheasant that Prince Takashi had mentioned earlier is stuck in his mind. 

“Miki shouldn’t be much longer. They’re kind-hearted and will look after you well. Go to them before you approach any other servants, as some are loyal to my mother. You’ll know which ones, in time.” A gentle knock at the door interrupts, and the prince is up and moving to unlatch it immediately. 

“Your Highness! What have you done this time—”

“Nothing! It’s fine. Everything is going to be okay,” the prince says as he pulls the door wide enough for them to enter and then promptly shuts it tight. “Keith, this is Miki. Miki, Keith.” 

Miki is short and plump, with dark hair and a pretty face that’s spotted with freckles and moles. They circle around Prince Takashi in concern, aghast at his worsening bruises. 

“ _He_ did this to _you?”_  they ask, a pointed finger trailing from Keith to the prince. “Yossi undersold this,” Miki adds, taking the prince by the chin and angling his head to get a better look at the damage. “What will the queen say?”

“That I deserved it for being lax in my defense,” the prince says through the hold on his jaw, his words slightly muffled. “And that I should have Yossi and Vio whipped.”

Keith straightens up at the admission— how plain it is, how dry the prince says it. It leaves him feeling the worst he has yet today, witness to the web of trouble he’s caused in one desperate bid for a means to live. “I’m sorry.”

Prince Takashi and Miki both turn their heads in his direction, wearing mirrored expressions of surprise.

“I’m sorry for stealing from you, Prince Takashi. I’m sorry for doing you harm. I was… only thinking of myself.” He shifts awkwardly in place. “I don’t want Ser Vio and Ser Yossi punished on my account.”

“They won’t be,” the prince says softly, his kind eyes on Keith even as he tugs Miki’s hand from his jaw. “I apologize, Keith. I didn’t say that in an attempt to guilt you, and you need not fear Yossi or Vio suffering anything of the sort. I think the sound ego-bruising you gave them is punishment enough.”

Miki laughs. “I saw them both heading to the sparring ring on my way up here. You’ve lit a fire under them,” they tell Keith, little dimples appearing around their smile.

“See? A silver lining already,” Prince Takashi says. “I have business to attend to, Keith. In the meantime, Miki will take you down to the baths and then show you to your room—”

“My room?” Keith asks.

“Of course,” the prince answers. “It's small and quite close to the kitchens, but it’s better than sharing a room with a dozen others. Take the remainder of the day to rest, if you like.” 

“Let’s hurry,” Miki says, ushering him out so quickly that all he can do is stare at the smiling prince as he goes. “The fewer people who see you in the state you’re in, the better.” 

Keith remains hopelessly lost as he’s lead down to the servants’ baths. He waits awkwardly while Miki draws the water and sets out everything he’ll need— from soap to a pile of clean, neatly folded clothes— on the sleek wooden floor. 

He’s grateful when they step out, leaving him alone in the lengthy room. Behind the added privacy of a simple wooden screen, he kicks off his clothes and sinks gratefully into the prepared bath. The soap isn’t the usual tallow and ash, like they sell for cheap in lowtown. The bar he’s given is white as the palace walls, finely milled, flecked through with what smells like juniper. He sinks all the way down into the scalding water and scrubs until his skin is pink and squeaky clean, and when the water cools and he finally emerges, he feels reborn. 

Prince Takashi’s old clothes are silky fine against his skin, if a little musty. It’s simple in cut and color, a solid navy with little details of white flowers and silvery stars. He’s been given a pair of slippers, too, which he slides on last, wriggling his toes happily within the comfortable confines.

Miki actually claps their hands together and coos over him when he slides the thin door aside and steps out nearly an hour later. “So much better! Oh, you look like a little prince yourself.”

“Glad I clean up nice,” Keith mutters under his breath. 

“Even Queen Eboshi would find you charming, like this,” Miki says as they beckon him out into another hall, across wooden floors and down narrow sets of stairs. This area of the castle is bustling with people, and more than once Keith has to press himself against the wall as someone rushes past. Just up the stairs from the kitchens, there’s a short hallway with a thin wooden door that slides into a panel to the side.

It’s _his_ room. Keith steps inside in awe, peering around the space that Miki promises is for him and him alone. It’s unfortunately far from the prince’s own quarters, but everything about the tiny, tidy room appeals to Keith. 

It has a small window, high up, with screens he can close and latch to keep the wind out. The mat under his feet is soft, and to his right is a space where he can roll out a cushion to sleep on. A trunk sits against the wall, along with a low desk he can kneel at.

“Prince Takashi specified that you take this room. You’re very lucky,” they say, as if Keith doesn’t already know it. “This one is especially cozy in winter. Is there anything else you need, Keith?”

“Um, no. Not that I can think of. Thank you,” he mumbles out, the words all stilted. It’s strange to be asked after like this, handed anything he might want for on a silver platter. “I’ll, uh… try not to be too much trouble. _More_ trouble, I guess.”

Miki pulls a small smile. “I’ve known Prince Takashi from the time he was a child, first summoned here from his wetnurse’s home. There is no hell you could raise that he already hasn’t, as far as I’m concerned. And His Highness is a good judge of character. If he believes that you deserve a second chance, then I believe it too,” they say, giving him a little pat on his arm.

Keith doesn’t know what to say to that. The whole day feels dreamlike, and he half wonders if he’ll fall asleep safe in this cozy retreat and wake to find he’s still curled in an alcove in lowtown, his dagger tightly fisted even in slumber. 

“Please rest. I will come retrieve you for dinner—”

“With Prince Takashi?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Miki answers, shaking their head. “The prince is going to have his hands full, but he advised the kitchen to give you the portion meant for him. And you do look as though you need it,” they add, tutting as she looks down at him, small frame and slender limbs swallowed up in the prince’s old clothing.

“I could’ve eaten everything on that tray in His Highness’ room,” Keith admits. 

Miki presses a hand over their chest, moved by his words. “Well, if the kitchen’s dinner isn’t enough to fill you, know that you are more than welcome to eat with me and my family,” they say, smiling. “I make a stew that will put meat on your bones in no time at all.” 

He doesn’t see Prince Takashi again that day, though he thinks of him while he dines on roast pheasant and buttered peas alone in his room. He doesn’t see him the next day, either, or the one after that.

Miki collects him for meals and baths, though, introducing him to the servant staff they encounter along the way; most are welcoming, if a little cool, but there are still people who eye him with the same wary distrust he’s used to garnering.

After a dozen insistent offers, Keith finally accepts an invitation to join Miki’s family for supper one evening. They make a one-pot dish that is as delicious as anything to come out of the royal kitchens, beaming proudly as Keith wolfs it down. Miki’s wife Nance works in the palace as well, tending to the temperamental horses that the royal family rides; their children are all very young and quick to marvel at the novelty of Keith, the Wastelander thief who beat up Prince Takashi in broad daylight.

It’s… not really a reputation he’s keen on having, but Keith supposes he’s earned it.

Miki brings him small gifts from the prince, too; each one carries a little note, which they read out loud to Keith as he folds his new clothes and neatly arranges each article in his trunk.

The first is a bundle of finely pressed paper and charcoal, with a short letter that reads, _Keith— you’re not forgotten! I thought you might like to pass the time drawing. My tutor tried to increase my artistic skill by having me faithfully copy the murals along the walls of the ballroom and entertainment hall downstairs. It was by all accounts a failure (see drawing of octopus below) on my part, but perhaps you will fare better._

The next day, Miki comes bearing a small glazed pot with a tiny, purple-tinged star cactus, its rounded form spotted with striking little flecks of white. Shiro’s note reads, _Keith— I saw how fondly you looked at the plants I collected in the Ariz Wastes and thought perhaps you might like one for your room. This one is a star cactus, quite rare to come by and slow to mature, and as the ink dries I realize you almost certainly know more about this plant than I do!_

When he’s left to his own devices, Keith lies on the cushion of his bed and drags his thumb across the inked lettering. The strokes are even and measured. Beautiful, though Keith can’t read into their meaning on his own. If he could write, he’d pen messages back— little notes that could make the prince smile in turn, and could let him know that Keith is thinking of him, too.

But he can’t, so he takes up the sheaf of paper and tries his hand at drawing instead. Keith begins in the painted room he’d seen upon first entering the palace, mimicking the curves and gestures of the animals arrayed across the walls; he ends the day outside in one of the palace’s gardens, Miki keeping an eye on him from afar as he settles down to study the cultivated forest around him.

Miki helps him select his best efforts of the bunch and promises to deliver them to the prince’s room. The next morning, they carry back a stack of paper thick as a priest’s tome, along with an inkwell and a brush. It comes with another letter, though the strokes it bears are hurried and rushed, with errant drops of ink: _Keith— You have a deft hand (unsurprising) and an eye for composition! Thank you for the fine drawings, though I am now very self-conscious of the octopus from my previous letter._

Ser Yossi and Ser Vio come to check on him, too, taking turns. No doubt it’s on Prince Takashi’s orders, probably to keep him from going stir-crazy while he waits for the prince to summon him for hand-to-hand training.

It begins with walks around the palace grounds, showing him the lay of the land and introducing him to the guard staff so he’s not mistaken for an intruder. From the ramparts along the bailey wall, Ser Vio points out the prince’s rooms in the castle’s central building— the fourth floor, corner wing— and offhandedly mentions that she once shot an assassin as he scaled the building, catching him just shy of the open window. While showing Keith the forges the following day, Ser Yossi casually promises that if Keith were to ever betray Prince Takashi, they would slay him or die in the attempt.

The threat doesn’t even make Keith bristle; he accepts it with a nod, not really expecting anything less, and that seems to set the retainer at ease. After only a week, Keith better understands the shape of their obligation to the prince, the devotion that lies under the gruff exterior of people who’ve known Prince Takashi since he was ‘a scant thing with a penchant for running away’ and ‘a terror with too many clever thoughts.’ Less than seven days in the orbit of the prince, trailing him unseen like a comet, and Keith already dreads the thought of disappointing him.

And he has a life-debt to repay, anyway. Ser Vio and Ser Yossi smile when he tells them as much.

They end up training together, the three of them, while Prince Takashi remains embroiled in matters of the court. Keith had first taken it for a folly, a means of distraction, an outlet given to keep him from burning up with unspent energy; as the pair of them watch intently while Keith demonstrates a dirty move he’d learned from a contraband smuggler, he realizes it is perhaps more than that.

The next morning, they have Keith help them reenact that fateful day in the market to understand where they’d failed and how they might counter such an attack in the future. It’s the work of hours, and though Keith is newly bruised and aching when he sits at their table for dinner that evening, that night brings the soundest sleep he’s had so far in the palace.

Their next session is joined by the royal arms master, Ser Hewley. Tall, black-haired, and bearing a scar that just glances over one of his bright blue eyes, the man carries a broadsword so long and heavy that he must sling it over his shoulder. He’s hawkish as he watches Keith spar with the prince’s retainers, though he makes no comments and takes his leave while drinking deeply from a flask carried at his hip.

“Don’t mind Ser Hewley,” Ser Vio tells Keith as she offers him a waterskin to drink from. “He’s northern. Ice in his veins, you know. It takes time for him to warm to anyone.”

They have a picnic dinner of sorts when they’re well worn out— a basket of food that Ser Yossi picked up from the kitchens earlier in the day, all of it bundled neatly in colorful fabric and little wooden boxes. The pair lead Keith to a quiet spot on the palace grounds near a pond that’s overlooked by a late-blooming tree dropping petals into the water and settle in the grass to eat.

It’s quiet, and Keith likes that. He’d missed the silence of the Ariz Wastes after making the journey to the Arusian capital; he’d accepted the city’s constant murmur as inescapable, grown used to the sounds of chatter and shouting and clattering wooden wheels. The palace courtyard exists in a permanent and welcome hush, home to songbirds and the wind as it rustles through the leaves.

Their spread boasts cheese and soft bread, a melon that Vio splits into equal portions with her dagger, hand-formed rice stuffed with pickled fish, and a dish of lettuce and pungently spiced meat. All of it is tasty, and it’s topped off with a chocolate-covered dessert that leaves Keith licking his fingers greedily.

Dusk has nearly fallen by the time Prince Takashi joins them, trudging out of the thin woods with a bottle of wine tucked under his arm and a sheathed sword in hand. “My apologies for arriving so late.”

“Too dark to be swinging swords, Your Highness,” Ser Yossi comments.

“Good thing I brought this, then,” the prince says, waving the wine bottle as he bends to hand each of them a cup.

The fading light is enough to see how rough the prince still looks, the deep purple of his bruise spilling across his cheek and under his eye, arcing up along the eyelid. It gives half his face a haunted look. It’s only barely begun to heal, turning color at the very edges.

Keith doesn’t meet his gaze as the prince pours him a small measure of wine, embarrassed anew.

“Is everything settled?” Ser Vio asks, her tone delicate.

Prince Takashi sips his wine, smiles, and nods. “All planned and sealed. Come spring, I’ll lead an army up to Wycome and bring it back into the fold, with Minister Sanda present to make sure I faithfully carry out my orders.”

Keith notices when Vio and Yossi both wince, small and sympathetic. 

Ser Yossi grunts. “Well, it can’t be helped, Your Highness. War was inevitable the moment they began accepting support from Dairsmuid in spite of royal decree.”

“It was,” the prince quietly agrees as he brings his wooden cup back to his lips, his stare drifting.

Prince Takashi changes the subject after that, brighter as he asks about their training together and then peppers Keith with questions on how he’s adjusting to life in the palace. Keith speaks more than he’s wont to, only because the minutiae of his week and a half in the palace seems to lift the prince’s spirits. Yossi and Vio chime in periodically with their comments— mostly praise for Keith’s lack of complaint, his astounding physical strength, and his tirelessness during their extended sparring sessions. 

Their unexpectedly approving words— and the prince’s pleased smiles— trip Keith back into silence, burning up to the tops of his ears with a wildfire blush. Deeper into his cups than anyone else, Ser Yossi insists that the prince should sing to them, nudging his wife in the side until she voices her agreement. 

Prince Takashi obliges with a song in a language that Keith doesn’t know, his voice as smooth and pleasant to the ear as any Keith has ever heard drift out of temples during worship. Like the artful handwriting he cannot read, Keith appreciates the prince’s singing on the beauty of its sound alone, the mournfulness he weaves into words that Keith doesn’t even recognize. It leaves Keith thumbing the hilt of his mother’s dagger and thinking of what his father would say to see him here and now.

They linger as the moon rises and the stars glimmer through the branches above, only goaded into leaving when the call of the changing of the guard drifts down from the bailey walls.

Keith feels warm from the wine and the night air of summer-turning-fall. He can see better in the moonlit dark than any of the other three, and he ends up leading the prince along with a hand on his elbow to steady him as they step over gnarled roots and weave between darkened branches.

They deposit Keith in his room first, and he settles in under his covers with heaviness in his limbs and an ache in his heart, the tune of Prince Takashi’s song drifting in his mind as he sinks into slumber.

 

* * *

 

Fall slips by quickly, the days dwindling down to nothing in what feels like no time at all. It’s the first winter in a long while where Keith isn’t daily worried about where he’ll take shelter and how he’ll keep warm. His room by the kitchens never lacks for heat, but Prince Takashi saw to it that he was given a down-filled quilt anyway, and its cushiony warmth is the only temptation worthy of making him think twice about his duties to the prince.

Keith rises each morning like clockwork anyway, slipping from his cozy room amid the bustle of servants in the throes of morning work. He inhales a quick breakfast from the kitchen— usually rice porridge and cold ham— and then slips out to the training ring to meet Prince Takashi or Ser Hewley, depending on the prince’s busy schedule.

“I was up late with a consul from Rivain,” Prince Takashi yawns this particular morning, hiding the gape of his mouth behind the back of his hand. He rolls his wrist and twirls his sword a few times, the gesture almost lazy. “Go easy on me.”

“No way,” Keith snorts as he paces round the prince in a loose circle. “Do you think _assassins_ will go easy on you, Your Highness? Enemy soldiers? Hungry thieves from the Wastes?”

It gets him a little smirk, and Keith smiles back in kind.

“You _did_ , though,” the prince objects. “I saw you weighing your options. You could’ve done me far worse than a split lip and a blackened eye.”

He could’ve. He’d come close. There wasn’t a day that passed now when Keith wasn’t grateful he hadn’t. “Harm my prince?” he asks instead, teasing. “I’d never.”

Prince Takashi makes a dubious sound through his close-mouthed smile. “Just fight me.”

The prince is a quick learner. It hadn’t taken many spirited sparring sessions for Keith to observe that much. His tricks work on Prince Takashi two or three times at most, and then he wises up and finesses himself a counter. It forces Keith to keep thinking on his feet, pushed to the brink of his agility and creativity when the prince comes at him, dulled sword swinging. 

Somehow, the combination of Keith’s bloody-knuckled, duelist-inspired style and Prince Takashi’s improvisations on perfect, Garrison-trained forms meets them somewhere in the middle: on almost equal footing, the prince’s experience and Keith’s natural strength make an even match. They trade wins and make draws often enough that Hewley, Yossi, and Vio take to placing bets on their sparring.

“Keith, stop swinging that sword around like it’s a fucking bludgeon,” Ser Hewley yells from offsides, ever the critic. “And loosen your arm! You’re stronger than Yossi’s breath in the morning— fucking act like it!”

There’s a spirited argument on the sidelines after that, complete with slung curses, but Keith only has eyes for Prince Takashi. He’s taking advantage of the brief respite in their fight to double over, the tip of his sword buried in the loose dirt and sand of the sparring ring, laughing to the point of tears.

He stands up straight and Keith is envious of how handsome the prince always manages to be— even red-faced with exertion and laughter, messy braid half-undone, his simple muslin training clothes ripped and dirtied from Keith throwing him around the ring. It’s effortless, imbued in every fiber of him, right alongside his easy allure and compassionate nature.

“Enjoying yourself?” Keith asks, trying his best not to show a smile.

“Wildly. I’m so relieved he finally has someone else to yell at,” Prince Takashi tells him, still fighting for breath. “I think… I’m free.”

“Oh, don’t go thinking I’ve forgotten you, _Your Highness_ ,” Ser Hewley calls. “Get your blade out of the fucking dirt or I’ll have you polishing every weapon in my armory until sunup.”

The prince shares a bland look with Keith as he draws up his sword and carefully cleans the blade with the hem of his top. “He blusters like the northern winds.”

They draw again. It comes only after they’ve disarmed each other and continued on with bare fists, grappling with until they’re filthy from the dirt sticking to their sweat-slick skin. Prince Takashi gets a hand around his throat, firm but unthreatening; Keith manages to pull his dagger from his boot and aim it up under his ribs, poised over a spot that would ribbon his guts and nick his lungs in one stab.

Ser Hewley rules them both ‘not disappointments’ and takes his leave before they’ve even managed to untangle themselves. Yossi and Vio help them both back to their feet, and after making sure that neither the prince nor Keith is notably worse for wear, they get permission to head back to their quarters for lunch.

He and the prince drag themselves to a nearby pond and plunk down on its banks, amid the strewn leaves and fading grasses. Keith lacks for anything more pressing to do. Outside of his duty of training with Prince Takashi, he has no real obligations. The prince gives him tasks for his betterment, of course— lessons with a tutor, weapons training with Ser Hewley— but else wise, Keith is usually left to his own devices. Purely by choice, he helps Miki with chores and Nance with the horses; he draws and paints; he joins Vio and Yossi for a game with colored tiles and dice that he doesn’t quite understand.

And he clings to the prince's side every moment that he can.

Prince Takashi has a dozen places to be on any given day, though, and a hundred people impatient to speak with him. He’s seemingly occupied from dawn til dusk, clamored after all hours of the day, and Keith is grateful for the time that the prince carves out of his overburdened schedule to spend with him.

“You did well today, Keith.” 

“So did you,” Keith says, his cheeks aching as his small smile grows into something toothy. “Your overhanded strikes have so much power, it’s unbelievable. My arms go numb from blocking you.”

“It’s the height advantage,” the prince laughs, rolling his leg to the side so he can knock his knee into Keith’s. “But you have room to grow. Keep loose like Hewley says and it’ll help diffuse the force of the blow. I know half of what comes out of his mouth is obscenity, but the other half is useful instruction.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Prince Takashi.”

“You know, when it’s just us, you can call me Shiro,” he says, looking at Keith sidelong. “If you want. Everyone closest to me does.”

“Shiro?”

The leaves under him crinkle as he shrugs. “A little nickname my grandfather gave me. It’s a nice break from hearing _Prince Takashi! Prince Takashi!_ all day.”

“Shiro,” Keith says, trying it out. He likes that it’s short and quick to call out. He likes that it’s something rare and special, a name reserved for the handful of people the prince keeps near.

There’s a cry from somewhere in the palace woods behind them. “Prince Takashi! Your Highness! Minister Sanda summons you _immediately!”_

The prince’s head rolls to one side and he shares a dry, tired look with Keith. “Like fucking clockwork,” he sighs near Keith’s ear.

“You could blow them off,” Keith says quietly. The calling continues, a pair of voices now, though growing fainter as they move in the wrong direction. “We could hide somewhere for a while.”

Prince Takashi— _Shiro,_ his thoughts firmly correct— cracks a smile as he sits up. “It’s a very tempting offer, but duty calls. I’ll see you tomorrow, I hope.” 

“Anytime you like, Shiro.” He stays seated in the grass as the prince takes up his sword and draws into a stretch that cracks his back. “Ser Hewley said he’d start teaching me to ride within the week, and then how to use a bow on horseback.” 

“You’ll be ready to go hunting with us soon,” Shiro grins. “You have all my wishes for good luck,” he says, ruffling at the thick fluff of Keith’s recently trimmed hair. “Take care, Keith.”

Keith watches him go, figure doused in shafted, orange light from the setting sun. Once alone, he settles back down on the earth, surrounded by the smell of fallen maple leaves and bright grass, and folds his hands across his middle. Alone, he tests the name again.

“ _Shiro._ ”

 

* * *

 

The change of seasons is reflected within the palace: the tapestries hung on the walls change to snowy scenes in silver thread; the vases hold bare branches and winter-blooming plants with red berries and white flowers; the smell of ash and smoke hangs indoors.

And for the first time in months, a day passes without Keith seeing or hearing from Shiro at all.

He shrugs it off as a busy day for the prince and distracts himself with his studies, curled in the warmth of his room as he diligently reads and copies from simple texts that Shiro leant him. But as another day passes, Keith’s thin patience morphs into a dreadful inkling of worry that gnaws at him worse than the cold.

There’s no sign of Miki either, even when Keith stops by their family’s quarters for dinner; Nance tells him not to worry, even more tight-lipped than usual, but it chips at his thoughts while he picks over a warm meal of barley and salted pork. Neither Vio nor Yossi appear at his door to drag him to training or a game of tiles or cards, and Keith misses both more keenly than he’d anticipated possible. In the days that follow, no servant comes bearing a message from the prince, and His Highness’ silence is more numbing than even the breath of winter.

Three days in and Keith crosses the snowy courtyards by his lonesome, the need to move getting the better of him. Around him, the guard shifts still patrol, servants and groundskeepers tend to their duties, and the coming and going nobility of court sneer at the sight of him— everything is as usual, except that Keith is stranded alone in its midst.

Vio and Yossi’s private quarters are empty and cold; Keith doesn’t need to pick the lock to tell that much. He wonders if they and the prince have taken off somewhere and left him, or if they’re holed up in the royal quarters. Keith can’t find Ser Hewley, either, and guesses he’s out in some city tavern again, spending his pay on heavy drinking and pretty company.

Keith retreats to his room and hunkers under his blanket, breathing hard. The thought of going up to Prince Takashi’s room occurs to him more than once, always swiftly beaten down. _Maybe I offended him,_ Keith thinks, squeezing his eyes shut. _Maybe I crossed a line. Where? When?_

He spends days wracking his mind while he waits for someone to come for him and deliver the bad news. He’d teased the prince while they sparred. He’d broken three spears while trying to learn to throw them like the prince could. Two weeks past, he’d inadvertently insulted a member of court and Prince Takashi had been forced to hurriedly sweep in to defend him.

Maybe that had been the final straw, despite all of the prince’s assurances that the ordeal wasn’t his fault. Keith’s hopelessness rekindles itself as anger, as fierce as it is formless; _useless_ , because the damage is done and he has only himself to blame. It peaks in bursts, pouring out in fits of impulse that he swiftly regrets: tearing up his drawings and paintings, punching through the mat flooring, snapping sullenly at one of the kitchen servants when they bring him dinner.

Fragments of his routine are all that draw him out from his room— sporadic meals, quick baths at odd hours. A considerable part of Keith whispers that he ought to just take his things and go, like the prince promised he could, and flee before he has to face the heartbreak of Prince Takashi casting him out. But as he packs a cloth bag, Keith is troubled by how much it feels like stealing. Too much of what he has is borrowed or gifted, and every journal and talisman and article of clothing reminds him of the prince.

It’s a kind of desperation that finally drives him upstairs to Shiro’s quarters, recalling the prince’s tricks and hiding spots as he sneaks his way past the nighttime patrols through the halls. He’s never gone there uninvited— and probably, _definitely_ shouldn’t now— but he feels like one more hour alone in his room or wandering the palace grounds will drive him mad.

He creeps up the last set of stairs slow, low to the ground, exceedingly cautious. He can tell someone is around the corner, standing directly outside of the prince’s door, and Keith can’t recall any time he’s ever seen a guard posted right by the door.

“Who’s there?” It’s a voice he recognizes.

“Keith,” he says softly, peeking around the corner at Ser Vio.

She curses low as she slides her sword back into its sheath. Vio is in full armor, low lantern light glinting off of the lacquer and metal, and even by the flicker of weak flames Keith can see she’s exhausted.

“Keith,” she sighs as she rubs at her eyes with the back of a gloved thumb. There are dark bags underneath, made worse by the low light, and she watches him with the wariness of a spooked cat. “What are you doing up here?”

“I was looking for Prince Takashi.”

“At this hour?”

He’d been so wrapped in his own turmoil he hadn’t given thought to the time. Keith shrugs, uneasy. “I… It’s been almost a week,” he says thickly, every other word drying up on his tongue. His guts coil up tight before he can spill them, and that’s for the best.

Ser Vio’s expression softens considerably. “Has it really?”

Keith looks from her to the heavy door. “Did something happen?” A new fear springs to existence inside of his chest, its birth violent and wrenching. “Is Prince Takashi okay? Is he hurt? Did—”

“Keith, quiet yourself,” Vio orders, her own voice low and hissing. She stands resolutely in front of the prince’s door, but there’s an understanding sort of kindness in how she beckons Keith closer. “You can’t see him, and he isn’t fit to see you.”

“But—” 

“Be patient,” Vio insists, edgy and curt in a manner she usually isn’t. “And speak nothing of this. A prince being unwell is not news to spread. Do you understand?”

Keith nods, the fear in his chest multiplying into a host that quashes his lungs and chokes his throat. There’s the tiniest prick of frustrated, futile tears at the corners of his eyes. “Is there anything I can do?”

Vio smiles at him, wan and fleeting. “Make an offering to the gods for his good health.”

 

* * *

 

Keith does, in the way his father had taught him. There’s no temple involved— just burnt juniper branches in place of incense and an offering of apples and a slain white hare. His prayer is more like a plea, and he remains kneeling in the snow at the edge of the palace’s forested grounds until the crunch of heavy footsteps finds him.

Ser Hewley carries him to his personal quarters— a single room set into one of the inner bailey’s many guard buildings— slung over his shoulder, much the same as Keith had carried the dead hare while his hands were buried inside his fur coat for warmth. The arms master builds a fire in the hearth to stoke warmth back into Keith’s limbs and serves him whisky in lieu of food.

“It’s been a rough week on all of us,” the man says, settling in a wooden chair and crossing his legs. He perches his amber-filled glass on his knee and drags a hand down his scarred and unusually haggard face. “Sorry for leaving you in the lurch. One of us should’ve thought to check on you.”

The admission loosens the squeeze around Keith’s chest but cuts deep all the same. No maliciousness, no punishment, no secret disdain from Prince Takashi— just forgotten as the prince’s condition caused his innermost circle to close itself off around him. Keith only wishes he’d known sooner that Prince Takashi was in poor health, as the days he’d spent wallowing while the prince lay sick now feel embarrassingly selfish. 

That thought alone feels selfish, too. Keith sets his chin on his knees, his arms looped tight around his legs as he stares down at the soft dark of the bearskin rug under him. _Spirit wishes are like this,_ he thinks. The cruel give-and-take of demons who delight in human tragedy. He’d spent a week lamenting what he’d done to cause Shiro and the others to turn from him, only to find their sudden silence had nothing to do with him at all. And it’s _worse_ like this, out of his control. Out of anyone’s except maybe the gods’, if they care at all.

Keith thinks of Vio’s words and says nothing, grateful that Ser Hewley already knows exactly what’s on his mind. Concern nips at him like the draft from under the wooden door. At a loss for what to do with himself, he takes a sip from his glass and wrinkles his nose at the sharp taste as it leaves a steady burn down his throat.

“Don’t blame you for being worried, but Prince Takashi’s a strong kid. Letting yourself fall by the wayside is of no help to him, either. Buck up and keep it together,” Hewley mumbles in between drinks. “And if you need to get away from your room in the next few days, you can come here. I know you know how to pick the lock.”

* * *

It’s strange, almost, how the palace at large continues unbothered or unwitting of the crown prince’s conspicuous— at least to Keith— absence, but myriad snippets of conversation and idle chatter around the castle tell Keith all he needs to know. Most of the regular staff don’t pay nearly as much mind to Shiro as he does, and if they do notice and wonder where he’s gone to, they’re quick to supply rational answers: one of his periodic flights from the castle; a solitary hunting trip; a visit to a vassal’s estate; a misanthropic, bookish spell that’s made him reclusive.

Keith fills the next days so that he might not have time to dwell on the unknowns surrounding Shiro and his current state. He catches Ser Hewley again and pesters the knight into giving him the keys to the training hall. Time alone with the wooden dummies provides him with hours of productive distraction, and Keith fills the gaps with everything else he can think of: helping Nance tend the horses in the stables; lifting iron weights and imitating the stretches and acrobatic forms he’s seen Shiro do; cleaning and organizing the armory for Ser Hewley; painting landmarks of the Ariz Wastes from memory to see if Shiro will recognize them, too.

In his haste, he leaves the paintings behind when a servant finally comes with a message from the prince, requesting his presence in the royal quarters.

Ser Hewley stands guard outside the entrance, looking surly as he leans heavily against the wall and waves Keith inside. “Go straight in, kid. Come let me know if he wants for anything.”

Shiro’s rooms are filled with heavy, stifled air. It sits unstirred like the heavy mist over a bog, and though it’s freezing outside, Keith is tempted to open the shuttered windows. On the nearby desk, Shiro’s red orchid sits wilting. The prince’s patient hand had spent weeks gently coaxing it back to its former glory, and now it shrivels from more than a week of neglect. Keith stops and pours a little water into its ceramic pot before continuing deeper into the royal quarters.

There’s a thin layer of dust on the shelves of the study. Beyond it is the prince’s bedroom, the only room in Shiro’s suite that Keith has yet to see.

It’s sparse, unlike the cluttered study and decorated sitting room that precede it. Spacious and empty and dark, all of the windows shuttered and barred to prevent any unwanted intruders. A painted screen blocks an adjoining bathroom; Keith gets a glimpse of an oversized tub with clawed feet and an impressively tall mirror with a gilded frame.

Shiro’s bed is enormously wide and long, and he sits squarely in the middle under rumpled layers of quilted blankets in shades of silver, blossoms and constellations stitched into the luxurious fabric. His dark hair is loose around his shoulders, messy from a lack of combing, and he rests against the carven headboard with a dozen pillows piled behind and around him. 

“Your Highness,” he greets as hesitant steps bring him closer. “Shiro.”

“Keith,” the prince returns, head tilting. “I hope I’m not imposing on you, but would you mind sitting with me for a while?”

“Of course,” Keith answers as he settles down onto the low chair set by the prince’s bedside. There’s a sheathed sword propped beside it, and he swallows deep at the thought that Shiro is trusting him as he would a retainer— to guard him as he sleeps and recovers.

Shiro sighs out in relief. “Thank you, Keith. The others all needed a break after keeping such a long vigil.”

Keith shrugs, his nails scraping against the sheath of the sword as he settles it across his lap. “You could’ve asked for me sooner. I’d do anything to help you.”

Shiro only smiles at that, a low noise at the back of his throat. His dark eyes flutter shut as he lets the back of his head gently thump back against the mahogany behind him. “I apologize for leaving you in the dark. It’s nothing that— well, even half out of my senses, my first instinct is to keep my condition hidden. None but you four and Lord Holt know.”

Keith shifts uncomfortably. “This wasn’t a fever, then.”

“No, not a fever. I almost never fall ill like that, oddly enough,” the prince says. “A different kind of illness. One that lingers across years, ever since I was about your age. The first time was fresh after my maiden battle. I collapsed there in the hall of Ser Hewley’s estate up in Shuksan. At the time, we thought it exhaustion.”

Keith draws in a tight breath. Underneath Shiro’s words, he can hear his own heartbeat, quick and resounding in his ears. “Does it have a cause?”

“None that we know of. All I can do is handle it as it comes. Sometimes it’s nothing more than fatigue or a weakness that makes it hard to grip a sword. And sometimes it’s this,” he says, gesturing to the bed he sits in. “Muscles seizing up, limbs too heavy to move, wobbly and weak as a newborn calf.”

Keith’s brow furrows tight. “Can’t I do anything to help?”

“What you’re doing right now is helping me.” Shiro gives him a little smile and gestures for the pitcher of water on the nightstand; he offers a quiet thanks when Keith hands him a full glass. “But there isn’t much else to do for it, no. Lord Holt has yet to find a medicine that quells it completely, despite a great deal of research.” 

Keith hums to himself. A _Lord Holt_ , whom Shiro trusts with his secret and the hope of a cure. “Never met the man, but I already like him.”

“If there was ever a lord you’d like, it would be him,” Shiro says, grinning. “Lady Holt is a good one, too. Together, they drew so much ire from Sanda that they’re no longer invited to events at the palace.”

Keith snorts. He’s only encountered Minister Sanda once thus far— a fact he gratefully attributes to Shiro’s care to keep him well away from the harshest opponents of his presence in the palace— and her curt tones in addressing the prince had soured him on her within moments. She had ignored Keith entirely.

“Hewley tells me you’ve been training hard. Spear-throwing, eh?” Shiro asks to switch subjects, eyes alight with excitement.

Keith grins. “Lower your expectations. I saw the holes straight through the targets from when you practice. I’m lucky if I can even glance them.”

“It’ll come to you,” the prince assures him. “Given time to practice. You can’t take to _everything_ as quickly as you did the sword.”

Keith grunts. It’s true, but he wishes it were otherwise. Few things are as thrilling as stunning Shiro with his aptitude in combat and other matters.

They talk for hours, until Shiro tires and drifts off in the middle of telling Keith all about the ways he hopes to improve Arus under his future rule. Keith draws the quilts up higher, covering the prince’s shoulders, and settles in.

He studies the lines of the prince’s face while he sleeps, tracing curves that he’d love to put to paper. Even gaunt-cheeked and bearing the telltale signs of physical exhaustion, Shiro manages to be beautiful. His inky hair— a little unkempt without its usual treatment of camellia oil and careful combing— fans over the white fabric of silk-cased pillows, tangled near the ends. 

Around dawn, Yossi arrives to relieve him, still wearing dark bags under his eyes and carrying all the stress of a sleepless week. Keith refuses to budge, tells the knight that he looks like death, and offers to keep up his shift. It’s a testament to Ser Yossi’s exhaustion that he accepts. With weary groans, he drags a rolled up sleeping mat from a small adjoining room and rolls it out on the floor alongside the prince’s bed. Keith watches as the retainer beds down with his sword nestled close, thanks him, and swiftly starts snoring.

Shiro doesn’t move much in his sleep, except to roll over and murmur unintelligibly. When he does finally come to sometime just after dawn, it’s with a sharp, determined look in his eyes that reminds Keith strangely of their sparring matches. 

“Shiro?” he asks, scooting forward in his seat. “Is there something you want?”

“I want to get the hell out of here,” Shiro mutters as he pushes the covers down to his waist. “I’ve been staring at these same four walls all week.”

“Eat first,” Keith says as he grabs the tray of food Miki brought up earlier and gingerly sits on the edge of the bed. “And then we can go anywhere you like.”

The prince spares him a tiny smile before selectively picking at his breakfast. He drinks down a clear soup first, then eats a few berries and takes a bite from a fluffy pastry. “You eat the rest,” he mumbles as he licks his fingers clean.

Keith makes quick work of it and then goes to find something for Shiro to wear, stepping lightly over a sleeping Yossi along the way. He picks soft cotton pants and a top that looks comfortable, plus a heavy, long-sleeved robe to go over it. Warm enough, he thinks, and its drape will help hide the prince's lost weight.

Shiro has to lean on him heavily as he dresses, taking moments to sit and rest before resuming. Keith can tell he gets frustrated by having to pause.

“Sorry it’s taking me so long.”

“You’re fine,” Keith assures him. “It’s not like we’re in any hurry.”

Shiro has Keith grab him a long, fur-ringed cloak, which he clasps around his shoulders. He bids Keith to pick a shorter one for himself, too.

“Are we going outside?” _All those stairs,_ Keith thinks grimly. All the lengths of corridor, paced by guards and quick-footed servants. It’ll be a difficult trek, but it’ll be worth the prince’s satisfaction.

“Yes,” Shiro says as he opens the heavy wooden door to his quarters to a startled Ser Vio. “Go in and get some rest, Vio, if you can. Yossi is snoring louder than a typhoon. Keith’s taking me up top.”

“In this chill?” she asks, eyes bugged wide.

“Only for a minute,” the prince says as he squeezes past her and beckons Keith to follow.

“We’re going _up_?” Keith asks. He’s never been higher than the floor Shiro’s rooms are on. 

“That’s right!” Shiro says, bright even as he gets winded while they go up two flights of cramped, disused stairs. “It’s a surprise.”

It is. The stairs lead to a heavily barred door that requires a key from the strand Shiro wears around his neck. The very top floor of the castle is open-air, wood and plaster walls traded for a beautiful carven railing and stiff white pillars that hold the sloping roof above them. It offers the perfect vantage of White Spire and the surrounding countryside— the woods and low mountains to the northwest, heartlands and forest south and east. Keith imagines that during sieges, such an observation point was invaluable.

Cold wind whistles around them, wickedly cutting at this height, and Shiro hurriedly waves him toward a large, enclosed shed nearby. It’s a much more recent addition, its wood unpainted and golden brown.

Inside is warmer, sheltered from the elements. Keith quickly realizes it’s not sealed entirely— there are windowlike openings on a far wall, and the shed is lined with hay-filled bins and little platforms, wooden dowels and railings where birds might roost. Where they _do_ roost. Keith glances up and finds a set of sharp eyes aimed at him, golden and piercing in their assessment. 

His jaw drops. “You keep falcons?”

“Hawks,” Shiro grins as he pulls two heavy hide gloves down from a peg along one of the walls. “Red-tailed. Would you like to try holding one of them?”

“Yes!” Keith exclaims without a second thought. “I’ve never seen one this close.”

He watches as Shiro slips on the thick falconer’s glove and holds his arm up to the hawk sitting perched above. The bird looks down at it, sharp-beaked head twisting, and then deigns to trade its current perch for his forearm. Hooked talons curl in deep, pressing indentions into the protective hide.

“This is Soroush,” the prince says. He lifts his free hand up, fingers bare and curled and trembling from the cold, and runs a knuckle along the underside of Soroush’s throat, ruffling her feathers.

Keith smiles as the hawk nuzzles into Shiro’s touch, resonant with soft little noises of appreciation.

“I raised them,” Shiro tells him with a shy smile. “Sometimes I take them hunting, but for the most part I just let them come and go as they please. They’re good companions when I need to get away from everything and everyone else.”

At that moment, Keith quickly pieces together a picture of what this place usually is for Shiro: a sanctuary. There’s a little stool in the corner and a few books stacked along a shelf, next to a tiny bottle of amber-gold whisky. He wonders how much and how often Shiro steals away up here to indulge in a little solitude before the demands of his position come closing back in. 

“I don’t want to intrude.” Keith takes a half-step back toward the door without even thinking.

“You aren’t,” Shiro says at once, curling his hand around Keith’s shoulder to keep him from drifting away. “Not at all. I value my privacy where I can get it, obviously, but… I enjoy your company, Keith. I prefer it to keeping my own, actually."

“Oh,” Keith says. For all he’d spent years telling himself and others that he preferred to be alone, the past two weeks have pared that belief down into splinters. Maybe he had, once. Or maybe he’d just convinced himself by necessity. Now, he prefers to be alone with Shiro. “I feel the same.”

“I kind of noticed that similarity in us,” the prince mutters as he checks Soroush’s talons and feet with care, smiling to himself. “We really should go hunting soon. Give us both a break from the palace for a while, hm?”

The thought warms Keith through despite the steady drain of the chill that seeps into the hawks’ mew. “I’d like that.”

“Here, would you like to hold her?”

Keith nods, screwing his face up tight as he pulls the rough hide of the glove up his arm. More than maybe anything else thus far, he doesn’t want to mess this up.

“Careful,” the prince says as he holds his arm close to Keith’s, letting Soroush consider him. “Stay steady. Help her feel secure. She needs a good, strong perch to support her.”

Keith inhales a small, stuttering breath as the hawk awkwardly steps onto his arm, digging in tight. He can feel the pressure of her strong grip, the muted prick of her pointed talons. She’s surprisingly heavy, though it’s not enough to make Keith waver.

Soroush leans in to stare him in the eye, head tilting and turning inquisitively.

“She likes you,” the prince says as the hawk begins nibbling and cleaning her own feathers, apparently comfortable with the new human. His eyebrows are raised high, his grin all thrilled surprise. “Really, Keith! I tried bringing Adam up here once and they— well, they did _not_ care for him.”

Keith smiles and chances to pet Soroush like Shiro did. Her golden feathers are sleek and soft, soft, soft. A flutter near one of the mew’s openings turns their heads— it’s another hawk, smaller than Soroush, waddling in from the cold.

“That’s Azrael. Next time, we’ll have to bring up some meat for them. Then you too can know the delight of a beak pinching your fingers,” the prince says, tugging off his falconer’s glove and scritching gently at the new arrival’s neck.

With a little cry, Soroush lifts from Keith’s arm and flaps up to a wooden ledge, landing clumsily. She bobs her head while staring down at the two of them, her beak slightly parted. Azrael hops closer to investigate him, finds hm worthy, and allows Keith to gently stroke the side of his neck.

Keith thinks he could sit up here all day and be content. Especially if the prince was here, too.

“Time to go, I suppose,” Shiro sighs, leaning heavy against the frame of the door. “Before Ser Vio gets too worried.”

It’s freezing outside of the hawks’ mew, the icy wind slivering its way through the gaps and seams of Keith’s heavy-spun clothing, burrowing under the fur-lined cloak of Shiro’s. It leaves Keith’s face numb and his nose running, but even so he finds himself drifting to the wooden railing along the edge of the open floor.

Shiro lets him; follows, a few steps behind, wavering in the wind.

The skies are clear today, no fresh snow on the horizon. Against that backdrop, two more hawks spin and wheel through the air, almost at eye level. “Yours?”

Shiro shrugs. “Akane and Hanaryo. From a clutch Soroush had. They’re a little more wild, but I’ve handled them before. They’re nippy.”

Keith laughs at that, the winter air freezing its way down into his lungs.

“I love watching them fly,” the prince says as he leans on the railing, elbow bent and chin propped in hand, the breeze whipping his long hair wild. “Envious, though.”

Keith nods at that, giving the birds one last look before Shiro lays a hand near his nape and starts guiding him to the door, the stairs, the warmth and protection of the castle.

 

* * *

 

Come the first signs of spring, Ser Hewley deems him ready for true combat. With the castle abuzz with preparations for the march north, it comes as a relief. Keith isn’t sure what he’d have done if the royal arms master had found him lacking and advised the prince to leave him behind.

The road to the northernmost fortress in Shuksan is long and winding. Keith had been allowed in the same room while Shiro and a number of war advisors planned their course— estimating the duration of the journey, planning for provisions and the heavy wagons needed for transport, designating campsites and foraging grounds along the way. The details were enough to make Keith’s head swim, and he felt no small amount of admiration in watching his prince capably see to everything, his concern for his people and his soldiers evident in every question and demand he made.

A good prince. A good king, one day. Keith had figured those only really lived in myths and old stories, softened by time and sugar-coated for children, but Shiro is as real as they come. 

Keith makes his way up to Shiro’s quarters, taking the steps two at a time with ease. He enters his rooms without preamble, marching through the sitting room and study and into his darkened bedroom. “Shiro. Shiro. _Shiro_ , wake up. You’re late to our sparring match.”

“Keith,” the prince mumbles, his face still smushed into his pillow, “dawn hasn’t even broken. In two weeks, my ass is going to be adhered to a saddle all day and I’ll have cold earth biting into my back all night. Let me have this extra hour.”

“Do you think the enemy will grant you a day off?” Keith says as he plants a knee on the prince’s bed. His smile is teasing as his weight makes the mattress sink just enough to draw the prince’s attention. “Do you think foregoing your training for an extra hour of lounging in bed is wise? Do you want your sword arm to get rusty?”

Shiro rolls over just to glare at him; it lacks heat. “Oh, spare me, _Hewley the Younger_. As if I don’t know you’re just looking to show off.”

Keith grins wider. There’s no denying how much he likes trying to surprise and one-up the prince, but that’s only part of what has him so eager. He’d hoped to lure Shiro down to the training ring and best him, giving his prince a vivid show of everything he has to offer before telling him the good news.

But now that he has Shiro in front of him, he’s too excited and impatient for all that.

“Ser Hewley says I’m fit to ride north and accompany you in battle,” Keith blurts out, grinning so wide his cheeks ache. His smile falters when Shiro sits up in bed and stares at him, lips just barely parted.

“North? But Keith, you don’t _have_ to come,” the prince says, turning Keith’s blood as cold as spring melt. There's a hard set to his jaw that gives only when he speaks. “Serving as a soldier or a bodyguard wasn’t ever part of the arrangement we made. I’d be taking you a long, long way from home. Further than you are now.”

It smarts worse than Shiro’s left hook. It leaves Keith just as stunned, too, his thoughts rattling around like he's been jarred in the head. The panic working through his chest spurs his breaths to a shallow race, and it's only with every ounce of control that he manages to keep his voice unbroken.

“Shiro, _please_ … don't leave me behind. Without you, I can’t last here.” Or anywhere at this point, though Keith swallows that truth back down. “Do you not want me with you?”

“Of course I do. I’d be a fool not to,” the prince says, everything in his voice meant to soothe and reassure. He runs a hand through his hair, long and silken fine, fingers snagging on little tangles near the ends. “But… it’s going to be messy, Keith. Dangerous.”

“I had considered that war might be.” Keith sits down on the edge of Shiro’s mattress, one leg bent under him and the other stretched out beside the bed. “I’m older than you were for your maiden battle,” he reminds the prince. “ _Years_ older.”

“Certainly more skilled,” Shiro adds, flashing him a small smile. He’s quiet for a moment, dark, storm-grey eyes studying Keith. “If Hewley thinks you’re ready and you’re of a mind to do it, then I would be grateful to have you with me at the border.”

Relief hits him with gale force, enough to buoy his spirits back to the hawks' heights. Keith sits up ramrod straight, narrow chest puffing out. “It would be my honor, Your Highness.”

Shiro nods in acceptance, his dark eyes soft and lined with faint worry; they meet Keith's for just a moment. Before he can make a comment, the prince cracks a smile and heaves himself to the edge of the wide bed. “Alright, let me dress and then I’ll come down and let you throw me around for an hour.”

The match is more evenly matched than the prince makes it out to be. It always is.

Because as much as Keith’s grown, and for all the strides he’s made in learning the ways of knights, Shiro has improved, too. Refined himself like metal reforged and retooled, sharpening himself to match Keith. They pinpoint and carve away at each other’s weaknesses; they smooth out each other’s rough edges with repetition and encouragement and patient instruction. And there’s a depth of trust to it all that leaves Keith’s blood humming with contentment.

They freeze after one last clash, Shiro grinning and panting hard, the cutting edge of his practice sword less than an inch from Keith’s neck. With a triumphant little sound, he gently taps the blade against Keith’s skin, letting him know he’s been beaten.

Keith casts a look up at the prince and smirks back. He taps his blade, too— right against Shiro’s inner thigh, dangerously close to both a vital artery and a very precious part of his anatomy.

Shiro blanches. 

“Looks like a draw to me, Your Highness,” Keith says smartly. He withdraws as soon as the prince pulls his sword back and drops his arm to his side.

“You’re ready for the battlefield, but I’m not sure the battlefield is ready for you,” Shiro says, a weak laugh trailing after.

“Anything to protect my prince.”

Shiro makes a soft sound of appreciation, his cheeks tinging with color. “I’m fortunate to have you, Keith. And considering I’ll be keeping you close as a bodyguard, I think it’s only right that I give you a weapon suited to the task.”

Keith pauses in the middle of wiping down his worn practice sword. “Like what?”

Shiro refuses to say any more until they’re at a heavy, securely locked door in a wing of the castle Keith has never before seen. He looks back over his shoulder as he unlocks it, his smile bright and warm as the first days of true spring.

“This is my personal armory, containing all of the weapons made for me that I’ve since outgrown or found unsuitable. They’re still fine pieces of craftsmanship, of course. I’m hoping something in here will catch your eye.” 

The whole room does. It glitters resplendently with regal swords inlaid with gemstones and ivory, spears of ironwood and silverite, flails and maces and longbows polished to a gleam. Keith marvels at every piece, every inch; he steals quick glances at Shiro in between, his excitement stoked by the well-pleased look the prince wears.

He picks a sword just like Shiro’s, forged in the Narahir style— a narrow blade with a single edge, fine-tipped, sharp enough to cut a man in half at the waist. The prince’s eyebrows raise at his selection, but he allows it and says, “Let’s see how it suits you.”

A week later, Keith breaks the tip clean off while training alone. He presents it to Shiro with a hanging head and a knotted stomach, afraid he’ll be angry at the quick loss of such a valuable forgework— and so close to their leaving for the northern fortress of Shuksan.

But the prince only laughs softly as he accepts the broken sword. Balancing the blade on his fingers, he tilts it and examines the break. “I was a little worried that might happen. We’ll find you something a bit sturdier to better match your ferocity.”

With Shiro’s guidance, he settles on a broadsword that bears the Shirogane crest and colors. In stolen hours leading up to the eve of their departure, the prince trains with him while he gets familiar with its weight and reach. 

It’s funny, Keith thinks, while he sits with Shiro at the height of the palace on their last day, watching the crawl of soldiers and servants down in the courtyard as they make ready for the trip. With the preparations for the march north, the prince is the busiest Keith has ever seen him, his attention constantly begged for and his time occupied down to the minute. And yet—

And yet, Shiro’s kept him closer than ever. The prince is far from negligent, but Keith knows that he must be shirking some of his duties to be spending this much time away from everyone else, only Keith around for company. And he’s grateful for it, given that things will change in unknown ways once they’re marching.

They sit on the intricate tile of the palace’s open-air floor, their legs slotted through the white-painted wooden railing, dangling their feet more than six stories above the garden grounds. The wind isn’t as biting now that they’re in the month of Drakonis, though it still nips enough to prompt Keith to tug his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

As evening falls and the first stars come out, Shiro names them one by one. He points out the constellations named for his ancestors and the legends surrounding them— kings and queens more god than human at this point, immortalized in the sprawl of the heavens. He listens with rapt curiosity when Keith tells him that in the Ariz Wastes, some of the constellations bear different names, the people having rejected some of the royal narrative in favor of adding figures and creatures they recognized: the wicked Khopesh scorpion Faro; the nine-pointed adder Guylos; the demon Imshael, said to wander the wastes in search of the helplessly desperate. 

“Your constellations sound scary,” the prince comments.

Keith laughs, never having noticed it before. He supposes that speaks volumes about the nature of the Wastes. “I guess that’s true.” 

Shiro points out a star that’s dipped low on the horizon. It flickers, as if in and out of existence. “That’s Kosmo, the star we’ll be following north. Do they have a different name for it in the Ariz Wastes, too?”

Keith shakes his head. If it did, he doesn’t know it. His father had taught him how to navigate the heavens in relation to their small desert cabin and the nearby landmarks, how to find his way home by following certain guiding stars. That had been enough, back then, but now his world is so much wider.

And as he leans against the railing and watches Shiro talk about the stars and their nature and the exciting research of one of the astronomers at the queen’s university, Keith can’t help but smile and be grateful he has a star of his own to follow through it.

 


End file.
